


The Bloody Thief

by NevaRYadL



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blood Drinking, M/M, Rimming, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-10 23:53:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 73,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevaRYadL/pseuds/NevaRYadL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gunnar was not alone when he fled Helgen. There were four others with him, each of varying skills, personalities and back stories. This is the story of Anton, a silent elf with exceptional assassination and thievery skills wondering aimlessly with a curse given to him hundreds of years ago. Will he seek a way out, or slip further into the darkness?</p><p>(Currently being BETA'd by the awesome Houdinimag)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bloody Thief

**Author's Note:**

> I rise from the dead with another fic! This one is about one my my dragonborns turned background chars. I figured that he had a decent enough backstory to attempt a fic, so here I go~

Breathing hard, the lithe Bosmer took a moment to drag his hand across his unusually dry forehead, before taking up his blunted dagger again and thrusting it with force at the cracks and chips along the wall of rubble that blocked their exit. Precision strikes with surprising force aided in breaking the wall into sizable chunks that the elf could then yank out with his bare hands. At his both sides stood the big Nord named Gunnar and the massive Khajiit named Od-Kaaz, hacking away at the stones with steel swords, sometimes abandoning the weapons to pull away much larger stones that they had broken or knocked loose.

“Anton, maybe you should take a break?” The Redguard woman, Rayvahn, suggested as she padded her own sweat streaked brow with a free hand. Unlike the others, she had favored precision strikes with lightning magic, taking care of stubborn and tough knots in the stone with ease. When she was waiting for them to hit a snag, she took to carting excess rubble away from the diggers.

Wheezing now, the little wood elf acted like he never heard the woman and refused to stop, continuing to contribute to their escape.

It was difficult to move with a group of this size, even given the panic and push they had because their lives were threatened. So, what should have been a clean exit was blocked off when the dragon decided to land on the hillside over their cave network, causing several tunnels to collapse as well as the tunnel that would have lead them out. Now the big Nord, Gunnar, and the big Khajiit, Od-Kaaz, and the little Bosmer, Anton, were trying to dig their way out while Rayvahn helped from the back.

There had been two more in their group, Ralof and an Altmer mage named Bruniik-Kah, but they had gone off to see if there were any free tunnels left. Both had seemed rather pessimistic about their odds of success, just as Rayvahn was pessimistic about Anton’s odds of simply not passing out from exhaustion… or not being able to breathe.

Sinking his slender little fingers into some cracks, Anton managed to work out several sizable stones and tossed them aside before pausing to catch his breath. He looked like he was suffering greatly, breathing like he had been running for miles. Strangely though, sweat just barely shined across his dark and heavily tattooed skin.

“Anton?” Rayvhan tried again, trying to sound caring but also use a bit more force in her voice.

“Hold on… Here we go,” Gunnar grunted.

He and Od-Kaaz had their hands on a massive rock, one that was about to come out of the rubble wall. The two giants agreed to a system of one pushing all the way on one side, and then the other pushing all the way on the other side, effectively wiggling the giant rock back and forth. Back and forth, back and forth, they wiggled the rock until finally with a mighty groan the rock came loose in their arms. They heaved the weight away and started clawing out stones that had just been loosened with their efforts and the removal of the large boulder. After a few minutes, more light came in as the hole grew larger, along with a thin stream of cold air.

“Looks like we broke through,” Gunnar grunted, wiping away the sweat from his brow. “But…I agree with Od-Kaaz that only little Anton can wiggle out through this.”

Anton swallowed, obviously not pleased about an idea of attempting such a thing.

“Then let’s keep at it, and be careful about losing this much progress,” Od-Kaaz rasped.

“Maybe I could try, I’m not _that_ much bigger than Anton,” Rayvahn suggested.

Anton shook his head and made a vague gesture to her armor and then her general being. True she was significantly smaller then the two giants, but Rayvahn was bound in her heavy and bulky heavy armor and she had almost forty pounds of just raw muscle on Anton. If she tried to slip into the tunnel she would surely get stuck.

“Right, back to digging then kiddies,” Gunnar chuckled.

* * *

When Bruniik and Ralof came back, with unsurprisingly poor news, Ralof went to helping to removing rubble while Bruniik aided him with telekinesis. Between the lot of them they started making some notable progress and even managed to keep the progress they had made They stubborn kept at it despite lost breath, heat and exhaustion, desperately wishing to be free from the earth that they preyed to the Nine was not their early graves.

After an hour they finally managed to make a passage that even Od-Kaaz could squeeze through. Taking full advantage of it, Anton slipped through, then Rayvahn, Bruniik, Ralof, then Gunnar and the Od-Kaaz. The big Khajiit had some trouble getting through, while the passage looked like it was big enough even for the beast of legend, at one point his shoulders got stuck and in a mad attempt to dislodge himself, only got lodged more. Gunnar had to squeeze into the cave himself and then pull with all his might. The end result was a comical tumble when the big Khajiit proved to not truely be that stuck and the big Khajiit managed to end up atop of the big Nord, who had had a dirty quip about it that had the big Khajiit terribly flustered. The whole scene only made Gunnar laugh as the embarrassed Khajiit scrambled to get on his feet. 

Finally, they were out just as the sun was setting, giving them enough light to see their surroundings.

As most of them were not native to Skyrim, even Gunnar who claimed to have grown up in elven territory, they strangers were rather surprised to see green when what little they had first seen of Skyrim was covered in snow. Sure there was a chill in the air, but there was green grass, green moss, flowers, mushrooms, dark brown trees and the evening colors of the almost uninterupted sky above. After being stuck in a cave for a few hours with the lingering fear of being buried alive, the group found the sight of Skyrim to be wholly and utterly gorgeous.

“Alright,” Ralof sighed, rubbing some dirt from his face before looking around, “My sister’s house is nearby, I should head there to see if she’s alright. Any of you lot want to come with me?”

“I think I’ve hung around long enough, I’ll take my leave,” Bruniik smiled, “Besides I want to… repay, the Imperials for their kindness.”

“I’d also like to do some more exploring, like I was trying to do before those bastards caught me,” Rayvahn sighed.

“I’ll go with you, Ralof,” Gunnar smiled, “How about you, Anton?”

The little elf shook his head before simply walking off into the wilderness.

* * *

Breathing heavily, Anton ran through the wild forest of Skyrim. Despite seeming excessively tired, his body moved without the slightest of sounds, his feet seeking the smallest footholds and left no foot prints behind. It was the footwork of a master thief or rogue, not a run-off mill-worker elf.

It was obvious by the way he moved with the slightest effort and the minimal amount of sound that he was trained in at least some ways of the thief, but what thief would have such an extensive scar across his throat that looked someone had tried to slit it?

Whatever mysteries or secrets he held, he kept them close, for it seemed he lacked the ability to spill them.

* * *

Shortly after wondering about, a thief came upon him. The feisty little Dunmer demanded all his belongings, and was quite furious when he did not respond. She held out a rather impressive looking dagger, saying that she would be the one to slit his throat, since the first threat obviously failed. He glared at the dagger and then snarled, revealing sharp red tipped canines. It took the girl approximately one second to realize what creature she had just messed with and to realize just how severely fucked she was. Within that short time, he had stepped forward, caught the wrist that held the dagger and broke it with ease. She turned to scream and look at her wrist when the smaller elf grabbed the sides of her head and gave it a very sharp turn that made a wet snapping sound and the thief fell dead to the ground.

Gauging the dead thief’s size after she had fully tumbled dead to the ground, he quickly stripped her of basic leather armour, under clothing, weapons and pack.

He messed around with the armor bit, but found that the Dunmer must have been quite busty and the molded chest piece would only make him look more feminine and fragile than his appearance already showed by being a Bosmer. So he scrapped it and slipped on the undershirt and pants, bracers, boots and tasset instead. They fit well enough, and while being the undead meant that he hardly felt any of the ill effects of the living, he felt the bitterness of the cold more psychologically then anything. Not to mention, if someone were to accidentally touch his skin they would feel the icy flesh of a corpse rather then a living being. The land of Nords was exceptionally cold, both in temperature and acceptance. He needed pelts or better armor soon, he did not want to get outed as a walking dead so soon and if the Nords saw an elf with as high a tolerance for cold as them they would get suspicious.

He tested the thief’s weapons, which were two simple steel daggers that turned out far too light for his tastes. He usually preferred some weight to his weapons, easier to break the ribs to get to the heart and generally do more damage over all. But they were the only weapons he could get his hands on at the moment, so they would have to do. They were in terrible condition though, had to be repaired or at least get them sharpened soon. Anything was better than nothing, he thought miserably. That was especially true in case of the simple iron dagger he had worn out trying to free himself and the others from rubble.

The pack yielded the best loot. It contained supplies worth of several days amount of dried food, as well as what Anton thought to be the loot from previous victims. Also a hundred gold coins, some semiprecious gems and a rather lovely necklace that Anton found himself clipping on around his neck, and tucking it under his shirt. The gold he figured he could use to either buy things or keep in case the option to buy things would present itself much later.

Suiting the pack on his back, he left the dead naked thief to the wilderness and made his way to where he thought the closest road was.

* * *

Walking along the trodden path, he must have been a sight to behold. A skinny elf with dark and tattooed skin, a blood red Mohawk, wearing only leather braces, boots and kilt, having a fetching pair of glowing eyes and dark red lips but also with a distinct cold and lifeless aura about him that unsettled and upset most living creature. But despite all this Anton was attacked by three red soldiers from the place where he had been almost beheaded. They have recognized what they thought was an easy target and rather disliked that he did not answer their jeering and lewd calls. They disliked him even more when he broke the arm of the one who dared to grab him. He had to go through a short tussle which ended in four broken arms, two shattered kneecaps, a pair of black eyes and a few dozen cuts on their side before the cowards ran.

The experience had just reminded him how much ire he drew from living creatures which compelled them to attack him for no reason. His very existence seemed to provoke violence, not that he cared. A few hundred years with the curse of undead had taught him that much, and his life beforehand had been nothing but strife as well, so many people wanting him dead or in their bed.

Anton had been a thief in his mortal life, one of the best actually. He could steal everything out of your pocket without being seen, in and out before anyone could even realize that he had been there. He could pick the toughest locks without scratching his picks. He could rob the house blind without alerting the residents inside even if they were awake. He also had a habit of slipping cracked bottles of potent poison into pockets if he did not like the person, slowly killing them and giving him ample time to get away He had even had encounters with the Grey Fox in the past, stealing from them before they realized even realized that he had even been there.

Then one day he tried picking the pocket of a stranger visiting his town and managed to slip away without notice. Once he had reported to the Thieves Guild, however, it turned out that the stranger had been a vampire and had already tracked down his usual hiding place. The vampire had also slaughtered everyone in their hideout before Anton could get there. The vampire wished him a pleasant evening and then told him that he would take what was stolen from cold bloodless corpse and attacked him. After an epic battle he had pulled his dagger from the bastard’s head but with an unknown little something that the bastard had left behind, a bleeding bite wound on his arm.

By the time he noticed, it was too late. There was no widely known cure for becoming a blood sucking undead all the way back then, so, he was forced to simply progress through the levels of vampirism, watching his body and needs change from day to day. His skin paled, his eyes changed, and his hunger also changed. Food no longer satisfied him, and the necks of random strangers just seemed so tempting. He killed a few people in several hunger induced panic attacks, ripping open their throats to steal what he wanted. He entertained the sick and morbid idea of stealing both the person’s possessions and their life, being the ultimate thief.

However, after a while the thought that he needed to kill someone to survive… disgusted him. He tried to think of himself as the creature that preyed on sentient beings, that it was the food chain and no different than when a man, elf or Beast killed an animal for food or his own damned people, some of whom ate each other and nothing else. Nonetheless, the thought of killing people with families, jobs, possessions, friends and memories… it haunted him.

For a time, he tried to feast only on the elderly and family-less wanderers. No one would miss them, right? Besides, if he did not drink, then he would be prone to attacking others, and revealing that he was a vampire had a habit of getting others like him killed. As squeamish about killing as he was, he was even more so about losing his own life. No matter how lonely and tiresome the life of undead was, he simply could not bring himself to end it.

However, most if not all of the blood tasted foul and carried diseases that made him sick. Anton had spent quite a few nights simply barfing up the meals he worked so hard to hunt down. Soon enough, the amount he drunk which was being forced out of his body made him feel as if he had not fed at all. He decided not long after that, to keep himself away from anything with warm blood flowing through their veins. Eventually, he found himself a nice cave and simply stuck to it.

He stayed in it, never moving and never allowing himself to fall to the temptation of his hunger, for almost two decades. During that whole time he fought the growing hunger, deciding ultimately to barricade the entrance during a fit of sanity to protect the blood carriers outside.

One day however, one wayward adventurer moved the boulders and found him. A starved looking elf with glowing eyes and fangs. The man attacked him, stuck a knife through his throat and carved right through it as Anton tried to defend himself… and then it went too far. The man landed on the ground, begging for forgiveness and mercy and he… he clawed, ripped and bit until the man was nothing but a mess. Then, he promptly drank all the blood he could get into his mouth.

After that… he had stayed in his little cave, looking at the carved carcass for a week until it started rotting and smelling foul. Still, he looked at what he had done in a fit of blood lust… Then he had cried and screamed for days. When he had finally stopped, he felt his voice stalled and died in his bleeding throat, and then ran as fast as he could into the untamed wilderness until he was sure that he was in parts that no one would touch for a while yet.

He dug himself a hole and then reburied himself.

And then slept.

He spent over a hundred years under the earth, slowly being buried deeper into the ground with mudslides and falling earth from burrowing creatures. At one point, a tree’s roots wrapped around him, securing him deep in the ground. Creatures moved near him above the ground, be he remained in his slumber.

The lack of blood helped, his body shutting everything down that it could to focus on healing him. But even deep in sleep, he could feel the faint touch of healing. His throat only scabbed over, closing the wound and thus, robbing him of his voice. His body was scarred deeply, heavily in his skin and muscle.

When he awoke again, it was by the sounds of fighting which was occurring on the ground above. He came to the surface again, spurred from his sleep from the sheer noise and surprised with the calmness that he felt. For some reason, he wanted to test the willpower he had been growing while being trapped underground. He found soon enough, that despite the presence of huge amount of blood, the temptation to drink never came. It seemed that the disgust which he had for himself and the extreme state of hunger had finally killed his appetite for blood. Strange… he was so starved that he no longer felt hunger.

The little elf had thought himself safe until the ambush came upon him. It turned out that hatred between the races had not dulled like his appetite. They captured him, along with the others and they were all sent to the block. He had almost seen Gunnar beheaded before that black dragon attacked. Then the mess with underground caves came by as they tried to gain their freedom.

At least for now, he was out on his own. His kind was not meant for the companionship but rather solitude. Furthermore...

He was meant to kill.


	2. Silent Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter. Would have finished yesterday, but fukkin Tumblr. Anyway, enjoy, and thanks for reading~

Waiting was not annoying at all for an immortal creature like him. After all, his kind only fed on the blood of the living, and required little else. He could bum around and just wait for work to fall into his lap, taking each job with leisure and patience. However, he soon grew tired of waiting for work to find him. As appealing as it has been, he was in desperate need of clothing, decent weapons, and any leads on some work he could do.

There was an honest attempt at finding honest work. But with his inability to speak and his pointed ears, people would either immediately turn him away or want to throw onto him absolutely trivial and or degrading work. He would not work as a kitchen boy to some rich noble or work the long and back breaking hours of the docks or mines. He tried applying his skills, he knew a number of older Elven script and Bosmer history, he knew poisons and potions, he knew how to secure against thieves and intruders but none of that mattered in the end.

He ended up resorting to pick pocketing again, much to his displeasure. The ways of the thief had lost flavor to him after that vampire wiped out his guild, friends and then left him with such an awful burden. Not to mention, he had only picked pockets for money to buy food and lodging why back when and well... there really was not much need for those things in his current state.

Unfortunately, it seemed that he was out of practice, and the Nords of Skyrim made sure to keep a close eye on him wherever he went. Now, his bad day would still be a magical day to any other thief, and while he could manage to walk away with small things, if that person realized that it was missing something, he was the first to blame. He could be even sitting outside, near the doors to the building or hold and suddenly he would have a red faced Nord running after him, hollering and pointing thick fingers at him.

Now usually he would have just left, slipped away into the shadows to never be seen again. The offended Nord, however, would always end up bringing the guards, who would always take his side. He tried to explain at first that there was nothing wrong, through written notes and hand gestures, but the Nords would either ignore them or continue yelling. They would also start slurring and calling him names or in some cases, refer to violence. 

Most of the time, he managed to incapacitate whoever came at him so silently and swiftly, that the Nords would not chase after them from such a humiliating defeat, leaving him to storm away. After too many incidents he could no longer pickpocket without causing more trouble than what little gold he stole was worth.

He had to resort to breaking into shops at night, taking as little as he could to could sell it elsewhere later. People grumbled about him the next day, but there was nothing they could do. He counted it a small victory, since it was more obvious when he walked away with jewelry and coins, than selling familiar pieces of armor and trinkets to the merchants. At least he was turning a profit without having Nords hounding his every other step.

After several weeks of skimming various items from stalls, he finally had enough to pay for sharpening his stolen daggers and to get a leather chest piece which would protect his skinny torso from the bitter cold of Skyrim. He hoped to have enough money for some pelts which could keep his usually cool skin warm enough to pass off as a living being. He figured however, that the imaginary taxes that Nords would force on him would make sure, that he kept to just his chest piece.

Looking around for a bit, he decided to go to Riften. In a city ruled by greed and corruption, there was bound to be someone willing to craft armor for him for the right price. Perhaps he could take a look around and see if there were any job offers, after all, judging by the mere rumors of the city, it seemed like a the perfect place where some people might want others… discreetly taken care of. If nothing else, it would offer the work he was more than willing to pick up.

Reaching the city, he realized right away that it was exactly the place that he was looking for. The guards at the gates wanted a ‘tax’ for entrance, but were easily dissuaded when he made a motion to yell. Corruption in law enforcement, and an open corruption at that, was a tell-tale signs of how horrible the situation inside of the city was. The more corruption within a government, the more work he could look forward too. This in turn would mean earning some coin and buying pieces of armor and weapons.

Inside the city, he brushed past some rude Nord that wanted his money in exchange for information that probably could be found in among the drunks and the poor. The Nord called out several searing slurs after him, which prompted a passing Dunmer to kick the man in the groin and storm away, so it was not too terrible. It seemed that there was still tension between races, but everyone did not care what the authorities had to say about that and took justice into their own hands. 

Corrupt AND lazy law enforcement only made his day better. It meant that there was a Thieves Guild in the city, and while he tried his hardest to not be a thief, the signs of said criminal organization usually meant that there would also be an opposing guild of hit men out there somewhere. Perhaps even a sect of some of the more known ones, like the Dark Brotherhood. If he could find the guild, then he could find work.

The blacksmith was situated in a small area dedicated to market stalls. Right next to the man selling Health Potions mixed with nirnroot and claiming it to be Falmer blood. Even though the smith was another Nord, upon realizing that Anton had the coin, he was more than happy to provide armor for him. Apparently he saw more than enough elves within the Thieves Guild, and did not care much for race so long as the person had the coin for the goods. Also, since smaller elves like the Bosmer and the Dunmer used fewer materials, it usually was cheaper to make armor for them, if slightly harder.

Taking him inside his little work shop, the blacksmith took measurements for different widths, lengths and shapes of his torso, arms and feet. After summarizing how much leather and other materials were going to be needed, as well as the time it was going to take to make such armor, and comparing it with his other commissioned items, he told Anton the price and the time it would take.

“I can have it done the day after tomorrow,” The Nord said, as Anton slipped his borrowed boots and other items back on “I could probably get it done tomorrow night, but people have stopped picking up their things from me. They want me to deliver them, like I have time for that,”

Figuring that it would rush his order, and maybe encourage the big blacksmith to scrap a few gold pieces off the price, Anton made a grabbing motion towards the Nord, cocking his head to the side slightly. After a moment of staring blankly at him, the big Nord finally said ‘Oh!’ and went to gather some of the things that had to be delivered.

Sure, it meant that he, an elf, would be doing the work for a human, but if it meant getting his armor at least a little bit sooner, it would also give him more time to explore and seek the assassins’ guild. Besides, he could always walk away with everything if the Nord started to think that an elf offering a helping hand was the equivalent of slave or servant. Though he was hopeful in his odds of that NOT happening.

The blacksmith gave him a pack with simple leather boots, three sets of daggers, a sword and a riding crop.

“The boots go to the Argonians running the inn, the daggers to the redhead selling the potions outside, the sword goes to the Earl’s spoiled brat in the palace’s courtyard, and well… the crop goes to the Orphanage,” The blacksmith said “I highly recommend you save the crop for last,”

He wanted to ask why in the world would an orphanage needed a riding crop, but then decided that he would rather not. So, he figured he would deliver it and be done with it. After all, if the headmaster of the orphanage liked to beat the children, what was it to him? He cared not for the affairs of Nords, or any sort of humans for that matter, and nor did he want to care.

So, bidding a farewell wave to the blacksmith, he went off to deliver the orders. He decided to deliver the sword first, the daggers second and then the boots to quickly get rid of Nords company, which left the riding crop for last simply, because he did not want to think about the implications of such a thing in an orphanage. Also, the sooner he could start looking for the assassin’s guild.

Walking outside he turned right and walked over to the palace courtyard, where a young Nord with a pinched face was swinging a sword at a dummy. It took several motions of his arm to realize that either the man was purposefully ignoring him, or extremely focused on training. Therefore, taking a piece of paper from his journal and writing ‘FROM THE BLACKSMITH’, he tied it to the handle, stalked over to the dummy and stuck it there, then walked away from the utterly surprised Nord.

To deliver the daggers he had to stand and suffer the redhead's inane squabbling, trying to sell him the fake potions when finally, he decided to shove the leather case into the redhead’s face. He was walking away when he felt the man trying to pick his pocket. He grabbed his wrist and twisted it around, threatening to break it with the tightness in his grip and the way he held the hostage's limb. Contrary to what normal humans would have done, he expertly twisted his way out of it with a strange smile. He did not stick around to find out what the man had to say, or figure out why he was skilled in the ways of a rogue, though he might have possibly been part of the Thieves Guild. He just walked away, product delivered.

The Argonians were much more pleasant, in a manner of speaking. They were a bit brisk and hard headed but also far kinder than the Nords in the rest of the city, this was certain. Firstly, they thanked him for going out of his way to help anyone, and were understanding to his ‘disability’. The kind Argonian lady tending the bar implored him to take a seat and merely listen to her chat. It seemed that she could tell that he too held a similar distaste for the humans in the city. Well, humans in general.

Over a cold mug of the local brew, she told him how they only remained in business because the other tavern was exclusive at best and because the innkeeper was a raging whore for Dibella. She told him of the muttered slurs she would hear when the local Nords got drunk and she did not do as they say. The angry insults when they were sober and angry, how they pestered her and her husband almost every day about picking a side in the war. She told him of the filth rotting the city, how the Thieves Guild demanded ‘protection’ pay out of her and how she had stopped paying months ago because they simply held faltering power. And finally, she told him of how the minority races of Skyrim had to stick together, even if their pasts almost demanded that they fight, lest the Nords make slaves of them all.

“You have to know what I mean,” She said, scrubbing the counter of spilled mead and ale “You’re a Bosmer, and you’re a wild looking, handsome fella at that. I’m sure you’ve been hounded as many times as I have by horny Nords,”

He nodded grimly, thin lips pressed together in a troubled line.

“Those Nords, always looking for ‘exotic’ conquests to conquer. Too many of them just want a hole that doesn’t belong to some other, dumb, muscular brute, and don’t get me started on how many of them have the weirdest fucking kinks ever. I had a customer in here once, who went on and on about my tail, wouldn't stop. I finally had to kick him out after one too many drinks and the bastard thought that he could get frisky,” She growled out “Just goes to show you. Those Nords are nothing but bad news,”

Again he nodded.

“Anyway, thanks for delivering those boots. And watch your back, as well as your front around those no good Nords,”

Nodding again, he quickly downed the rest of the mead before giving a polite incline of his head as a goodbye and left the tavern to get rid of the final object. The riding crop.

~*~

Anton had never been in an orphanage, as he was uninterested in children and also because it was usually a miserable places. Therefore, as he walked in, the smell of pleasant cleanness was rather unexpected and creepy in the same time. As was the miserable woman who sat at a table, staring blankly at the exceptionally clean wood.

When he approached, her lips parted and she droned out an obviously rehearsed line.

“I am sorry, but the children are not up for adoption today,”

He sighed and shook his head before reaching into the pack and presenting the riding crop. At the mere sight of it, the woman let out a pathetic whimper and shook her head. He growled and held it closer to her, urging her to take it. After all, she had to be the person that had bought it as there were no other adults present, but she just shook her head and refused to touch it, let alone look at it.

“Please, just hide that thing, if she sees it...”

The doors to another room flung open, and a rather ugly, twisted old hag stepped in. Behind her, Anton saw several children huddled together, but what really caught his attention was the amount of bruises and small cuts across their pale faces.

“Ah, I see my crop came in! Give it to me!” The old hag grinned crookedly, snatching the crop out of his hands before turning towards her charges with an evil, malicious smile “Look children, a new toy for us to play together with,”

Anton cared very little for Nords, this was obvious. He cared not what they did unless they tried to forcibly involve him. He was no hero, he was not the good guy, and he was not there to save anyone, certainly not with his curse and his affinity for work. And he certainly cared not what obviously rotten Nords did within their jobs.

But…

It was evident that she liked abusing children out of a sick, twisted sense of self pleasure. She probably got off on it. These poor kids were innocent, however. They could be taught not to be monsters that the adults around them were. Children only learned to hate from wicked adults, they only learned to be racist bigots from poor adult figures. Hatred was not born into children. It was learned or forcibly burned into their minds. They were reflections of their environment and nothing more. Innocent.

He was no hero or a good man.

Anton started to walk away and was almost pushing the door when he heard the first crisp snap of the riding crop, the first shrill scream. Suddenly, his steady feet were betraying him, turning him around and quickly walking back into the room to see the old hag holding the arm of a young girl who tried to curl into a frightened ball. 

He was angry, though he did not know why. He hated all Nords and humans alike and he cared not what they did. Then why was he suddenly caring now?

The old hag raised her arm to hit the girl again, but found her old wrist captured by Anton's hand. The old bitch did not even have time to look over her shoulder when a foot collided with her kneecap with a loud and wet crunch. She cried out, hands dropping both the girl and the crop, as she fell on her knees.

He should have ended it there and leave it at that, but that dark desire inside of him, the one that made killing so easy, suddenly woke up. He felt it tickle the back of his throat, that sour and bitter taste akin to bad blood, felt something hot and sick twist his insides, and felt a blood-haze take over his eyes, turning everything into a lovely red color. The lust to kill took over.

Dark tanned, tattooed hands wrapped around the old bitch’s throat, digging in as hard as they could. The old hag tried to scream, long nails coming up to shred and tear at the skin but to no avail. Pathetic little squeaks escaped her lips as an unsettling red color filled her wizened cheeks. Her body trembled with the effort of trying to escape. The need and will to live. 

It was much like watching a trapped animal squirm around, trying to free themselves from the hunter’s trap. They want to live with all their heart, despite having little to live for. A mate, food, adventures… nothing that would depend on their existence. Even animal’s children were more or less suited to live on their own when expelled from the womb. 

And this woman had none of that. The children she was supposed to be raising? Now standing, watching with gleeful fascination as the life was choked from her. The other woman? Now standing off to the side, a dark smile gracing her painted lips. Even the building was eagerly waiting for the life to be robbed from the woman, everything silenced at the moment of her death.

The red in her face slowly turned a vivid blue/purple color as her body quickly ran out of fresh red blood. Perhaps if she were not panicking as much as she was, she would have lived longer. Instead, she was moving around far too much, expelling too much air, moving her arms around and putting too much energy into escaping. Her natural reaction to live was only quickening her death.

Soon, her movements started to slow down, the squeaks coming with less and less frequency. Her hands were only twitching now, nails digging less in his skin. Snot and tears dribbled down her wrinkled face as she realized that she was dying and there was no hope. The trembling in her body started to slow and stop.

Finally, her movements ceased, her arms falling to her sides as her eyes lost the luster of life in them. After another moment to make sure that she was dead, he released his hands and let the worthless carcass fall to the ground. The thin, frail body fell to the ground with hardly a whisper, as if it knew that it was not worth much to begin with.

Looking up at the staring children, he realized that he had just done both a sick and heroic thing. This was going to draw attention to himself. He did not need that. Especially if he wanted to work as an assassin.

An assassin, a good one anyway, was both unseen and not heard of. He was supposed to be the face in the crowd that no one would point to, the unheard shadow in the dark alley, the individual whom you would never suspect. A poor assassin left calling cards. They made their faces and location known for fame and praise. These poor assassins are usually killed early on, or worse. 

Good assassins are never caught, and can eventually retire at a certain point in life to live normal lives with no one suspecting anything about them. A good assassin never killed in front of others unless it was for an exceptionally good reason.

Why did he kill the old woman, in front of children none the less?

Looking at them, he saw something… disturbing in their eyes.

Happiness. Joy. Praise.

He was not used to seeing someone so happy with another one's death, especially not children that were now looking at him like some hero who defeated a dragon.

He needed out.

He needed air.

He pressed a finger to his lips, and hissed out

“Shssssh,”

And ran out into the night.


	3. The Dark Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait and the short chapter. I'm going to try and upload a few smutty oneshots for Valentine's Day

Hiding in a rented room, inside of the Bee and Bard, Anton thought over his actions at the Orphanage.

He avoided ‘heroic’ actions since long ago, when it was obvious that someone of his size and race would make little impact in the world. When he realized that it was best to stick to the shadows and stealthy strike down those that strayed too close to the edges of those shadows, it was the only way to make a difference in anyway. Even as a thief, he found himself drawn to targets of wealth, saying that it was for the coin but really just trying to get back at the rich. He certainly stopped anything even remotely ‘good’ after acquiring his curse, killing without discrimination if the coin was good enough. After all, no creature with his curse was good for anything but killing and death. It only seemed right.

So… why did he do it?

He did not want to think about it. It some some part of his once living being coming through, that hopeless fool who thought he could do by doing bad. And if that fool was still lingering somewhere in his head… then there was no telling what that bastard would try to do. He was no longer that fool that watched his guild get slaughtered, he was a creature of the darkness, forever chained to it by an imaginary collar. If that old self of his got out… no. It was too late for such petty wishes and dreams. To cleanse himself of so many centuries of terrible deeds was too much for him to hope, too much for him to want.

Long ago he had dealt with being a being with little worth. Being beaten down in his youth for being smaller and skinny then the other elf children, being berated by other races for being an elf, being harassed by other races for being an elf, being treated like trash for being a thief, losing all her loved for being a thief and then becoming a vampire. He had been taught almost since birth that he was not worth any effort, not worth the air he breathed, not worth being bothered over. He had almost beat that training out of himself when he was a thief, almost, and then he had lost everything.

Now he still thought he was nothing. But he figured that ‘this little nothing can rob you blind, kill you without a sound, hide the body, and you wouldn’t be missed for a month’ and took some small comfort in that. And after it became obvious that so many years, that no one would be interested in anything about him but his body, he killed the need for companionship. And now… well he guessed that after so many years, if his old self came back out, then it was not too bad. Just another thing to work towards, killing those linger shreds of his old, cocky thief self.

With a heavy sigh, he dosed the single candle in the room. He stripped out of his gear, laying it out on the table next to it. Under the veil of shadows that his undead eyes pierced through with ease, he crawled into bed, hoping to avoid his nightmares.

~*~

In the early morning, before the crack of dawn, there was an awful banging on his door. It took a moment for him to rouse himself from slumber to put together what was going on. And when he did, he could only sigh deeply.

And knowing the preceder, because he knew full well what they were here for, he sleepily got out of his bed, pulling the cover with him. He wrapped a blanket around himself, so he appeared helpless and small, and furthermore played on his looks, and grabbed his notebook and a piece of charcoal. So when he opened the door to two angry guards and one seriously pissed off Keerava, he appeared like a little, adorable Bosmer in an oversized shirt.

“YOU FUCKING NORDS-” Keerava started.

“Elf” One guard said in a thick Nordic accent “We need a word with you”

He quickly scribbled in his notebook

I am mute, so I need to communicate this way

The guard seemed like he was about to protest, so he bent his neck backwards to reveal the thick scar across his throat, and to make his neck more visually appealing. If it was true about Nords liking ‘exotic’ conquests, then he would have to play on his race and looks, as much as it made him sick. 

When he was a thief, it was not infrequent for him to flirt with potential victims to get them to lower their guard, and he had been pretty decent at it. When he became a vampire assassin, he found himself too distraught with his curse to try and get close to humans without worrying that he would feed his curse. And while it had been quite some time since he had tried it, he still knew a few tips and tricks to at least distract people, subtly change their perspective and opinion of him through movements and appearance. 

And, it seemed that it was working, because he noticed both the guards adjusted their stances uncomfortably, even Keerava seemed a bit distracted.

“Alright, answer us this, elf” The other guard gruffed “Do you know Grelod the Kind?”

That must have been the name old lady running the orphanage. But he did not let it show in his face. Instead, he let his eyes widen slightly, tilted his head to the side, and puckered his lips slightly in thought. And seeing the movement, he saw the guards adjusting their stances again, the slightest of bulges in their armored skirts. And he almost could not believe that it was so easy. Were all Nords horny beasts? If so… then work would be too easy for him.

No, I’m sorry, he wrote

“Well, ahem, alright then. It can’t be you then, sorry for the disturbance” One of the guards said.

Nudging his companion, he urged the man to follow him as they left down the stairs. That just left him and Keerava, who was still slightly peeved. Her scales held a very warm tint to them, almost like an angry flush, if her cold blood could run hot like that. It was almost endearing, in a strange sort of way.

“Fucking Nords, just stormed in and demanded to know where you were. Aimed a sword at my throat when I refused”

He patted her shoulder to show that he had no hard feelings. After all, an unarmed barmaid against two armed, armored guards? Not everyone was like him and trained to handle almost every situation that headed his way. And it seemed to put the Argonian to some small ease, though that still left the agitation towards the Nords. Then again, he was sure that nothing would sake that, save removing her from a land filled with Nords.

“I should report them, but that fucking Earl is a Nord too. She’d probably side with the guards”

He nodded, in silent agreement.

~*~

Dropping down from the wall, a dark shadow approached Honor Hall from the the back. The shadow slinked along the side of the building, practically hugging it, carefully making its way to the front. It almost did, when a guard passed by. The torch that the ripped Nord carried gave off little light, not enough to catch the shadow. But the light was enough to illuminate a red and black dressed man, a green tail sweeping across the ground. And then the light passed and the shadow once again disappeared into the thick veil night.

Once it was dark again, the shadow slinked towards the door, the handle twisting without resistance, before it slipped into the building. The door slightly shutting behind the shadow as it joined the shadows inside the building.

Inside, the lights had long been blown out, the lamps extinguished and the fireplace close to eating the last of the firewood left for it to feed off of. So it was all the easier for the shadow to easily, silently, swiftly, sneaking through the main hall, the first main room, the children’s room and the silent breathing of their little chests, and the grab the handle of the door that lead to the headmistress’ room. Checking around once to make sure there was not a naughty child eyeing him from the safety of their blanket, the shadow twisted open the door handle and slipped inside.

The door clicked shut behind it, and the shadow silently stalked towards the bed with a shape inside of it. As it moved without the slightest whisper, it pulled a dagger from within its dark shape, the blade piercing even the darkness as it shined slightly in the dark. The wicked gleam seemed to hunger for the shadow’s target’s blood as the shadow slinked towards the body in the bed.

The shadow approached the bed, the dagger rising. And as the shadow loomed over the bed, the dagger raised as high as it seemed at it would, the shadow snarled out.

“Die”

The knife plunged downward, piercing the body in the bed. And for a moment, the shadow seemed hesitant as to what it had to do next. But after a moment, a part of the shadow broke off and touched part of the body. It remained there for a moment before it aggressively grabbed the blanket covering the body and ripped it away, the blanket ripping where the dagger was buried. But with the blanket ripped away, it revealed the still grotesquely twisted face of Grelod the Kind, paled in death and her throat and neck bruised with where the force of Anton’s hands had been.

“She… was already dead?!” The shadow hissed.

It took a moment to prove itself otherwise, checking the pulse, the temperature of the skin, the bruising coloring, the way that the body bled sluggishly around the dagger. But it was obvious that the body was dead, and had been for a few hours. And upon realizing that the old woman was indeed dead and gone, growled in anger.

This time the shadow was not silent as it stormed outside, leaving doors opened as it left, waking the children as the cold of Skyrim’s air seeped into their warm beds. Outside, the full moon was coming out, revealing the shadow was really an Argonian dressed in black and red leather, a bright green tail wagging behind him.

To those that knew the uniform, would realize that the Argonian was part of the infamous Dark Brotherhood. The organization that killed to those that prayed to their patrons, the Night Mother and Sithis. While in recent years, the Skyrim branch of this infamous guild was in decline, whether it was because that under the guise of war and racial hate murder was easy to get away with, or a straying from the old ways, was anyone’s guess. But that did not mean that people did not quake when they caught sight of black and red out of the corner of their eye or a shadow’s movement in the corner.

But the Dark Brotherhood’s presence in the city did bring to attention, who had prayed to their dark mother to have Grelod the Kind killed? And would they find the real killer?

The Argonian stalked straight out of the city, ignoring the stares of the guards and late night walkers, and headed straight out into the black of the night. And out into the woods, he came across a black and red clad Dunmer lady, who seemed keen to his agitation.

“What happened? You get caught, Veerava?” She teased.

“No, the old bitch was dead when I got there. Strangled by someone with strong hands” Veerava snarled.

“A-already dead? That was a Dark Brotherhood contract!” The Dunmer snapped.

“My thoughts exactly, so we should find this person and then contact Astrid” Veerava said “So… do you want to do recon, or me?”


	4. First Contact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer's Block be a bitch.
> 
> ((Sorry about the oneshots, I tried but... yeah. I'll try some smutty ones within the next few days that have just been lying around instead))

When the sun finally rose, he was already done getting ready for the day. His borrowed armor was on, his pack neatly stacked and arranged, his weapons as well prepared as they would have been, and his rented room already cleaned up.

Not a trace that he had been there. He had even shook the bedsheets out to weaken his scent a touch. And that was how he liked it. Better that he remained unknown.

Heading downstairs, he waved goodbye to Keerava and headed out into the brisk cold air of the new day. He keenly felt the icy air on his skin, and felt himself shudder. However, he barely had the cold for pelts or proper clothing. And realizing that he had a day to waste, had decided to go out hunting in the nearby forest for pelts for both himself and to sell for extra gold. It would feel good to get the cold air off his skin, even if it was always a little cool.

Arming himself with his borrowed daggers, he went out the front gates of Riften, glaring at the guards that had tried to shake money out of him, and then slipped out into the woods.

Being a former thief and an assassin never made one a hunter, NEVER. Being a hunter required an almost completely different training regiment, and if there was a thief/assassin that could hunt that usually meant that they allotted some time to hunting. However, thief/assassin training provided the basic skills for tracking and on foot hunting, the first steps in hutning. And while animals were much more keen on the area around them, and far faster, stronger and more agile than humans, the basics of killing and pickpocketing could help with hitting weak spots in animals. And though he did not have a bow and arrow, he could make do with his blunt daggers.

First, he stalked across the ground, trying to pick up obvious animal tracks. With the freshly fallen leaves, it was rather hard, and he almost felt silly for never having polished his hunting skills in the time that he had been alive. But he needed those pelts, and knew for a fact that some pissed off bear would try and attack him at one point. And while deer pelts were a bit more valuable since they had more desirable meat and bones, a large bear pelt would not only make a pelt for him, but excess to sell.

When he finally found some deer tracks, he carefully followed them until he spotted the creatures. Two young females and a large buck grazing on a patch of almost unfrozen grass. While the two younger females probably were not worth his time, the buck was definitely worth it. Both the pelt, meat and antlers would score him a few pretty Septuims. So, waiting for the buck to lift its prized head upwards, Anton readied one of his daggers. He could throw it with a decent force, and if he could get it into a major artery or even in the buck’s eye, then he could claim his prize without having to track down a bleeding, bleating animal.

The leather of the knife felt too rough in his palms. It was not nearly as used or loved as it should have been. The newbie thief had no clue how to properly handle a weapon, but he would show the weapon how it should have been used. All he needed was that damned buck to lift it’s head-

Alerted to some noise, the buck snapped its head up, looking around. His arm snapped outwards, flinging the knife with all his strength. The blunt knife flew through the crisp air, and- missed! He forgot the dagger was far lighter than what he usually dealt with, and went to far upward. While the blunt dagger did sink into the buck’s thick neck, it missed any arteries, and simply sank into flesh. The great creature wailed loudly, causing the two does to make a break for it.

He was already running as the creature started running blindly further into the woods. His other dagger was at the ready, ready to cut into the beast. If anything, he could run after the creature until it finally passed out from exhaustion or bled to death. Hopefully the poor creature would not have to deal with that.

Giving chase, he followed the creature over fallen logs, weaving in and out of trees, and once barreling through a group of hunters. But he was bound and determined to get that buck, or at the very least his blunt dagger back. And the great thing about being undead? It was next to impossible tire him out. And while his bad throat, made breathing in hard, he did not need to breath. It was only a habit.

After chasing the damned thing for what felt like hours, the buck finally started to slow. It stumbled and fumbled, and finally collapsed to the ground in a heap. Blood ran down its side, marking its way from half way up the neck down to its legs. And seeing that it was still breathing, he placed his other dagger against the creature’s eye and thrust it deep into the creature’s brain, instantly killing it.

With the creature finally dead, he pried his knife out of the creature’s neck and carefully wiped it clean on its already bloodied pelt. The scent of the creature’s blood was… tempting. But he easily found the will to ignore the scent. Still, he dragged the corpse over to small creek and washed as much of the blood off as he could, to avoid any accidents. And when that was done, he hauled the creature onto his shoulders, gripping the front legs in one hand and the back legs in the other.

Sighing deeply, he started the long trek back to the city so that he could skin the deer, craft the pelt into something useful, selling the bones and meat, and find some other way to spend the day waiting for his armor.

~*~

Hardly two steps inside the city with his deer and he was already getting oggled like a freak. It seemed that the Nords believed any ‘lesser’ race was not capable of any physical feats. And he glared at the lot of them. He was not weak because he was small.

If only he had not been born an elf.

Hauling his prize down to the lower levels of Riften, he laid out the deer and brought out his daggers. Posing his dagger for the first cut, he began the tedious task of skinning, gutting, and cutting the best pieces of meat from the creature and tossing the rest into the murky waters for whatever fish to eat. When everything was cut and ready, he washed his bloody hands in the murky water, watching the fish coming up to nibble on his fingers curiously, before swimming away.

Packing the meat and bones into the pelt, he hauled the bones to the alchemists. He believed that they used the bones in potions. He was not really sure, he never did like potion making except for the occasional poison. But he was sure that a trained expert would know.

The kind lady had use for the antlers and a few of the bones, but she told him that the rest would be rather useless. She paid him, in full strangely, and wished him well as, which was also strange. But at least he actually had some gold to his name now, which meant that he could probably have had his daggers sharpened or perhaps some cloth to cover himself in. It also helped lessen the edge of the sour opinion of Nords. The old lady was the last person he expected to be kind to him.

Discarding the useless bones into the water, he walked up to the food vender and sold her the venison. And being the kindly Dunmer that she was, also paid in full for the meat, complimenting him on ‘such a fine’ catch. She also asked that she would also buy anymore meat he had, saying that it was so much fresher to buy it from local hunters rather than trying to buy salted meats from traders.

“Fresh meat always tastes the best. It beats frozen and salted every time” She said as she neatly wrapped the slabs of venison and tucked them into her cart “You can taste the life, the blood, of the creature when its fresh, even if you cook it”

He wanted to laugh at the small joke, but then realized that it would have been inappropriate and next to impossible. So he nodded and pocketed the coins she handed over.

And then the pelt he took over to the blacksmith. The big blonde Nord was cutting into a large section of leather, and offered a nod as he stretched out the pelt on the rack. It seemed that the Nord was almost done with the armor, and figured that it would take as long for him to finish as it would to finish the pelt. Besides, while the big man was still a fucking Nord, at least he was a Nord that did not think himself of a ‘better race’ or at least had the mind to not say anything.

So he sat and worked over the pelt with his daggers, sitting in content silence with the blacksmith as the quiet sounds of the marketplace hummed in the background. There were times that someone came over to the blacksmith to talk or order something. When it was to talk, he tried to rarely stop working the leather. When he had to, wither to go grab something or to handle something, he tried to pick up the work again as soon as he could. When it was to order, he quickly took notes or measurements and then got back to working the leather into armor.

There was a small argument with some crabby Nord woman about him not immediately getting to work on his order. But then the blacksmith retorted about her never coming to pick up her order of daggers, obviously never wanting them to begin with. She tried saying that it was his job to deliver, and then told her that if she expected that then he would start charging for the footwork and loss of dignity. And upon hearing that, she ceased her arguing and paid for her order.

Other than that, it was a quiet several hours.

Occasionally he peeked over to watch the progress. It was… pleasant to watch as it slowly formed. At times he was tempted to say something because it did not look right, but then realized that he could not, and had to watch for several moments until more progress was made and he could make sense of it. And other times he was just satisfied with a single glance and focused on his pelt.

As the sun was setting, he was finished with his pelt. The inside was supple enough to bend around his body, and could be made to be soft with use and certain oils. The fur was soft enough and certainly warming enough. So he wrapped it around himself, simply to get the icy air of his skin. He quickly sharpened his daggers to a deadly point, figuring that he should have done that while there was a sharpening stone nearby. And when that was done, he sat by the forge to warm.

While he was huddled in his pelt, a certain Dunmer in average clothing met up with an Argonian in average clothing over by the Temple of Mara.

“From what I’ve gathered, no one saw the damned person besides the orphans and the new Headmistress” Veerava grumbled.

“And none of their stories match” Gabriella said “We’re looking for, either an Orc with a real mean look, a dark skinned Dunmer, a tattooed Bosmer or a Redguard. And dressed in a leather skirt, leather gauntlets and leather boots with a Mohawk”

“Well, they might have not left the city yet. Let’s look for the armor and hair at least, can’t be too many like that”

“Right”

And the two split up again.

~*~

Just as the other merchants were packing up for the night, the blacksmith finished the final touches of his armor. He stayed to make sure that everything fit, which it did like a glove, and then headed home as well. And with his armor finished, he could finally start hunting that assassin’s guild down.

With his pelt carefully wrapped around his skinny body, he could protect make a pseudo hood to pull over his head to protect his head and sensitive ears, and a bit of the pelt handing out the sleeves to protect his upper arms. With a bit of extra pelt, he extended his boots to protect him from the knee down. Now he was carefully covered from the icy air, he was more then ready for his travels.

Under the darkening cover of the quickly approaching night, he headed out to leave through the front gates. He had hoped to avoid detection, or at least avoid any heckling from the fucking Nords. He just wanted to make it into the woods so that he could avoid anyone and everyone. He felt like he had had his fill of the living for at least a few days.

He almost made it past the gates, almost. But just outside of the gates were a Dunmer and an Argonian. They took one look at him, seeing the tattoos on his face and along his elbows, and the Argonian hissed

“You!”

He turned to run, but the Dunmer was faster, reaching out and grabbing him and dragging him close enough for the Argonian to grab him as well. He reflectively tried to yell, but only a dry wheeze escaped his mouth. And when he threw a pleading look to the guards at the gate, they acted like he was not there. Of course, fucking Nords would ignore the blight of an elf.

The two dragged him away from the gates and into the woods. And when they were far enough from prying eyes, they tossed him to the ground. He was on his feet and wielding his daggers a second later, but the Dunmer was wielding two hands of fire and the Argonian was wielding two Daedric daggers. He was outnumbered, but there was the chance that he was not out-

“We know that you killed Grelod” The Argonian hissed.

...well shit.

He growled lowly, a rough rumble in the back of his throat.

“Now, that was a contract for the Dark Brotherhood, care to explain why YOU killed her”  
… for the Dark Brotherhood. He heard of them, a guild that followed the dark patrons the Night Mother and Lord Sithis. When people prayed to the dark mother, an assassin from the Dark Brotherhood would come to hear the plea and kill the victim of the prayer’s choice. It was a dark guild, but exactly what he was looking for.

With his silence, the Dunmer grew agitated, but the Argonian did not.

“Show us your throat”

Scowling, he pulled back his hood and turned his head to the side enough to show off the impressive scar, but not enough to put him at a disadvantage if the Argonian or Dunmer decided to strike.

“Mute” The Argonian said.

He seemed to maul something over… and then sheathed his daggers.

“Come on, Gabriella, we need to head back to Astrid”

“What?” The Dunmer hissed, but then scowled and extinguished the fire in her hands.

Glaring at them, Anton was confused for a moment. What were they planning?

The Argonian motioned for the elf to leave, and after glaring at him, swiftly left in the darkness. And after making sure that she was definitely gone, he turned back to Anton.

“Well be in touch”

And then disappeared into the darkness as well, leaving Anton to the blackness that he was usually in company with.


	5. The Fool and his Mother

For three days, he could not stop looking over his shoulder. At nights, he sat in the darkest part of caves, clutching his daggers and preparing for the two assassins to show up again. During the day he acted like he was always sneaking around his opponent, making sure that no one saw him and he was seen by nothing. He avoided cities and villages, and most populated woods simply to avoid anything that could see him.

For three days, he could not stop thinking about how they figured out it had been him so quickly.

He had been sure that the children did not get a good look at him. Not to mention, his tattoos made his skin tone look much darker than it did, coupled with his red eyes he could often be confused with a small Dunmer. Not only that, but he had been wrapped up and covered when they saw him, how could they have known?!

Remaining awake for three days gave him time to think about that question.

At first he figured that the children had seen him more clearly than he had previously thought. And being young and as revenge thirsty as they were, they probably told tales of his actions to anyone that listened. That seemed like the logical choice, but then that brought up the issue of him never being harassed or arrested by local guards. The worst he got were lewd calls and glares, never once except that one time did anyone even utter that old bitch’s name.

Unless they told highly exaggerated tales of what he had done. Perhaps they had made him taller, more muscular, perhaps they had changed him from an elf to a Nord, an Orc, a Dunmer or even a Redguard. Perhaps they had made him into something dark and mean looking, like a monster. It would explain why they questioned him but did not take him in, just one of many suspects that seemed the less likely. It would also explain how they found him, being trained assassins they had quickly narrowed down the list until he remained and then he had foolishly stumbled into them.

As much as he wanted to noe believe it… but his foolish mistakes had come back to bite him. He should have found a way to kill her without getting detected, or perhaps not have killed her to begin with. After all, the affairs of Nords were not his to mess around with. He should have left it all be. But that damned shred of humanity had surfaced so quickly… he could not stop himself.

And he had been caught. And now for all he knew he was being watched.

As much as he wanted to join an assassin’s guild, they had said that he had stolen a contract from the guild. Any other assassin’s guild he had ever heard of or was part of would normally kill anyone that stole contract unless it was an accident or out of their control. He killed the old bitch in cold blood, and he could not fight his case with words with his damned throat!

He needed… he needed to disappear. At least until he could gather some intel on the Dark Brotherhood, or at least made them think that they had scared him out of Skyrim. He could not live his life on the run, always looking over his shoulder.

He wondered where he would go, not knowing Skyrim well. He needed a place that was populated but small, easy to completely scope out, easy to have eyes and ears everywhere. And after listening in on passing by hunters, merchants and travelers on the roads, he decided to take a chance and head towards Whiterun. It seemed populated, but not too much, with most of the Hold’s space going to the palace for the Jarl. Not only that, they had a mixed enough population for him not to stand out too much.

He took his time getting there, making sure that no one was following him, no one was tracking him. It was a bit exhausting, but eventually his made his way across Skyrim towards Whiterun. Most of his traveling was done at night, as it was easier for him to move under the blackness of night as most vampires found themselves weakened under the bright rays of the sun. Not only that, but he only had to worry about smart hunters and the odd individuals traveling at night rather than having to deal with day traffic.

Eventually, he made it to an area roughly north of Whiterun. He could almost see the hold against the dark night sky. The windless night allowed a trace amount of heat to gather in the air, but that did not meant that he still did not find bone chillingly cold. He could hear the distant sounds of the Hold in the distance, the sound of a nearby farm and-

“OOOH!”

… a very high pitched man screaming in frustration.

Looking from the safety of some tall foliage, he spied what could have only been described as a small jester, jumping up and down in complete and utter frustration as he faced a cart with a busted wheel. To add to the strangeness of the scene, the cart was carrying a large and heavy iron casket.

Well… that was not a sight one saw often, almost comical without the casket. And for some reason… he was curious enough to go and look. Perhaps it was his damned humanity making a come back, or perhaps he was simple curious about the strange sight.

Stalking forward with the silent grace of the assassin he was, he almost made it the strange man. As he drew closer, he realized that the strange man was almost the exact same height as himself. And there was red hair poking out from underneath his jester hat… and that was when suddenly the strange little man twirled around and Anton found a knife pressed against his useless throat. Up close, he saw a dark and wicked glint to the little man’s eyes and the crazed smile carved into his features. It was the face of a killer.

And then it was gone, replaced with a jolly smile and apologetic eyes.

“So sorry, friend! Cicero has good ears, heard you sneaking up on him. Very rude to sneak up on someone like Cicero” The man, Cicero, tutted as he replaced the knife into his belt.

He rubbed his throat, shuddering as he realized what kind of being he was dealing with. As crazy as he appeared, the little man before him was a trained killer, a killer that loved what he did and had lost himself some time along the way. This was the kind of person he hoped to never become. A killer that loved what he did… was a dangerous person indeed.

“Cicero apologizes anyway, he did not mean to act so rudely himself! But low, poor Cicero, his wagon wheel is broken and he has no way of fixing it. He tried to ask the farmer up the hill, but he will not! What is poor Cicero to do?”

He was unsure how to approach this…

“If you help poor Cicero, he’ll pay you! Shiny, clinky, coin for your troubles”

Well… when it was put that way…

He always needed money, and if he could get paid for getting a man to help Cicero, then perhaps it would be the cleanest bit of work he had done in a good long time. And perhaps… he felt a pang of pity for the man. The assassins, the killers, the silent thieves, the ones that ended up enjoying what they did far too much. Each time he started to enjoy his job there was always a tragedy to remind him otherwise. The poor man needed to face a tragedy to remind himself of his humanity.

But perhaps… it was alright to help him with a spot of bad luck.

He nodded to the strange man and then headed up to the farm.

It took several loud knocks to garner the attention of the man inside. And when Anton managed that the man was none too pleased about being woken up in the middle of the night. He grumbled as he answered the door, and swore under his breath at the sight of Anton on his doorstep. Anton glared darkly at the man in return.

“What do you want, elf?” He spat.

He jerked a thumb towards Cicero and the jester’s broken cart. The farmer looked over his head towards the way he was pointing out and scowled deeper. It seemed that the man knew full well about Cicero and was not happy about his presence.

“You want me to help the jester? Listen, I just don’t trust the guy. Dressing up like a jester? The way he talks? And that casket. He could be smuggle all sorts of things in there. I realize he said he was transporting his mother’s remains across…”

Sighing deeply, he took out his notebook and scribbled down his response before showing the man.

_But what if he is transporting his mother’s remains? Then you look like an ass for not helping a fellow out_

Squinting to spy the words, the man grumbled to himself for a moment. 

“True”

_Or is this because he’s not a Nord?_

“What? No, of course not!”

_Then what is the problem? He is a man in need of some help and you have the means of helping him. Yet you hold out because of the ‘ifs’ and ‘whys’_

“Alright! You may be right. I’ll… I’ll help him out. But in the morning!”

_You better keep to your word_

Stowing his notebook away, Anton jogged down the path to Cicero to share the good news with him. Upon seeing his approach, the little man started to almost bounce in anticipation. His shrill voice pierced the silent night air.

“Oh! Oh! Oh! Does Cicero’s friend return with news for him?”

He nodded and was treated with a small dance from the small jester as he twirled around and rejoiced. He did not have the heart to say that he had to wait until morning for help to arrive, seeing that small man just so plain happy that someone was going to help him.

“Oh joyous of days! My dear, sweet mother is going to get to her new home! Poor Cicero is saved, thank you stranger, thank you!” Cicero cheered.

Stopping abruptly, enough to make Anton flinch, the jester reached into the pouch on his belt and scooped out a handful of coins and held them out.

“As promised friend, coins for you trouble”

Carefully taking the coins, Anton added them to his own coin purse. When all the coins were tucked away, he was about to bid the strange jester a silent farewell-

“Excuse Cicero, friend. But could I ask you another favor?”

He cocked his head in a questioning manner.

“If Cicero sees you again, he would like to be able to spot your face among a crowd” Cicero said with a jolly smile “May Cicero see your face?”

Hesitation.

He was already on the run because of one stupid move. Revealing his face… perhaps it was not as bad as killing a old woman in cold blood in front of several witnesses and then not ensuring the silence of those witnesses. But revealing his face when he was supposed to be keeping his identity as secret as possible, to be just another elf in the crowd, could come back later to haunt him. After all, he had a vague idea of the little man’s mental health, no telling if he would suddenly snap and come back later to-

Cicero suddenly chuckled, and his and snapped forward, gloved fingers snagging the edges of his hood. He caught the wrist of that hand, squeezing in a threatening manner. Cicero just kept smiling that same smile, now with a harsh edge and his eyes with a dark glint. The man was plotting something. Anton felt tendons straining under his hand, but not in a manner meant to move, more like a test of the restraint. Cicero’s other hand was at his side, clearly relaxed. He felt his free arm go lax, ready to tense and grab his dagger when this strange jester went for his.

However… he did not dislike the situation.

It had been awhile he had been in a enjoyable stressful. It had been too long since he had a challenge of skills rather than a general challenge. And that was what this was. This Cicero fellow was sizing him up so to speak. Perhaps he saw the way he moved, the way he reacted, perhaps he saw something in the way he had snuck up behind the jester. Or perhaps somewhere in that crazy little mind of his, Cicero needed a challenge as well, and he saw a challenge in Anton.

After a moment of utter stillness, Anton relaxed his grip. His powerful grip turned to a simple holding of the jester’s wrist. And with his wrist no longer in danger of being broke, Cicero pushed the hood back just enough for the moonlight to illuminate his face. He was not totally sure what the jester could see now, but he was fairly certain that his red eyes could now be seen. And if this killer was anywhere near as good as he gave off, then he would be able to recognize the colors as the undead.

And then his hood was pulled forward again, and he let go of the jester’s wrist.

“It was very good to meet you again, friend” Cicero smiled, “He hopes to see you again”

Smirking lightly, he nodded and then headed down the road, disappearing into the foliage when he was sure that he was out of the jester’s sight range.


	6. These Friends of Mine

The sun was just starting to throw off the dark hued blankets of the night as he come across Whiterun. He glared offhandedly at the bright reds and oranges that were slowly working their way into the sky, and tried to nonchalantly walk faster to the hold. 

Not that the sun did much to vampires, but losing the ability to heal and having the glaring light blind him was rather annoying. And he rather did not like having to squint in the daylight, it gave Nords another reason to harass him.

The guards glared at him darkly as he approached the main gates, but allowed the little elf inside. Probably because with such a popular hold had to have a racially diverse in-traffic, they were forced to at least not be ass-hats about different races coming into the city. Perhaps that was something better about an uncorrupted Hold, at least it was pleasant on the surface. Of course any amount of scratching brought out the ugly insides, but pretty at the very least.

Walking past a blacksmith just stoking the flames of her forge, and a fellow Bosmer unlocking the doors to his shop, past a house with the lights still on, and then into a small square filled with small shops and stalls and what he guessed by the impressive odor of mead, the local tavern.

He figured he would see if they would offer him a room to sleep away a few of the morning hours to the darkened evening hours. If not, if he sat and bought mead for a few hours, he was sure that they would not complain. If Nords made anything clear, they hated his race but quickly shut up when gold was brought out.

Thankfully for him, as he stepped inside, it appeared whoever was there was past the point of intoxication, out cold, or simply there to take advantage of some hot meals before heading to work. Hardly anyone even looked at him as he silently stepped up the counter. The tired looking lady Nord was wiping down a glass as he approached.

“What can I get you?” She asked.

He brought out his notebook and scribbled down his answer

_Do you have a room available?_

“Yes, ten gold” She said, placing the glass away, only to pick up another.

Well, at least she was not cold enough to overcharge him. Perhaps things were looking up for him?

He passed her the gold and she passed him a key.

So far so-

“Anton?”

...Shit

Turning around, Anton was greeted with the sight of a large Nord. This was… rather large for a Nord, standing perhaps about a head taller than the average Nord, while also being a bit broader with muscle and sheer size. Short black hair peppered with grey hairs, and an extensive scar the length of his face that seemed to have claimed the sight in one of his eyes. And… wait a moment. He knew this Nord!

He tapped the Nord’s chest, Gunnar’s chest, and threw the Nord a small grin. If there was any Nord that proved there was still good in the race, it was Gunnar.

“Hey, you remember me!” Gunnar grinned.

He bobbed his head.

“Almost didn’t recognize you though, nice to see you found yourself some armor” Gunnar said with a genuine smile “Though I never doubted that you’d be able too. You seem like a resourceful boy”

He cocked his head. Boy, was he?

“What? That I had faith in you or boy? I always have faith in people, until they prove otherwise. And I know you elves can live for bloody long times, but I’m old in human terms, I call everyone childish nicknames… unless their old like me”

For some reason, he felt like he could not get mad with being called boy by Gunnar. The man, while indeed old and somewhat childish, did seem like he had fountains of wisdom within himself. And at least he knew that Gunnar did not mean to seem demeaning or insulting. No, he meant it to be endearing. Or perhaps it was because one could not help but be in a good mood around the fatherly Nord.

“Join me for a moment? I’d love to catch up with you” Gunnar grinned.

He nodded and joined the big Nord by the fire, trying not to feel extra small next to Gunnar’s large frame.

“So, what’ve you been doing? Any wild adventures? Or perhaps, ‘wild’ adventures” Gunnar said with a shameless grin.

He smacked the big Nord’s arm, making him laugh.

“Alright, but that just means I’ll have to make up whatever you don’t tell me. So far I see Khajiits as far as the eye can see”

He scowled at the Nord.

“Oh alright, no Khajiits. But seriously, how have you been. Haven’t seen you since after Helgen”

He thought for a moment. A dead thief, a dead Orphanage headmistress, the Dark Brotherhood were probably hunting him and he was looking to join an Assassin’s guild. However he was sure that, even though Gunnar’s disposition was cheery, that the big Nord would wring his neck for any of those things. Perhaps being mute had its own advantages. So instead he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

“Nothing much, eh? Me either. I just joined a warrior’s guild, been trying to get this sour little pup off my back. He’s kind of cute though, being grumpy all the time” He laughed.

He cocked an eyebrow. A pinnacle of strength and all things Nords and he fancied lads. Not that he had a problem with it, but he figured that Nords only fancied boy elves for exotic conquests. He did not think that male Nords could get off on anything unless they were proving to be the stronger person. He did not think that… Nords could simply love.

“What? I’m at the age, I know what I want? And I think after dealing with what I’ve dealt with, I’m going to start looking for someone to settle down with, someone to slap a ring on and simply be with for the rest of my days” Gunnar sighed happily “How about you? Not sure how your years work, and you certainly look like a young thing. Are you at the age where you want to settle down, or do you still got some adventures left inside of you?”

Considering he was undead… he had quite a lot of time ahead of him if no one successfully killed him. Even before the curse though… he was turned at a fairly young age for elves. What was he? Just shy of fifty, if he recalled correctly. That was a lot in a human sense, but short in a sense of his people. Of course, that was almost six centuries ago. Not only was he old, but he was ancient to most of his people.

He shrugged in response. How could he? In one sense he was young, and in the other he was beyond his time. Was this the time to settle down, or continue adventuring in his case?

“Eh, still undecided? Well I’m sure you’ve got time no matter what, I don’t have much left” Gunnar smiled good heartedly.

He nodded.

As much as he did not want to think about it… Gunnar had a point about time. There was only so much of it. Sure, his was almost unlimited unless someone managed to kill him. But… could he really just keep killing forever? Could he just watch the world grow old around him while? Could he remain in the shadows while lives passed before his very eyes?

Gunnar patted him on the back, grinning warmly.

“So, boy, how’s Skyrim treating you?”

He scowled darkly.

“Yeah, home of the Nords. Can’t say I’m proud to be one of them” Gunnar laughed “Just so you know, not all of us are complete and utter milk drinking assholes”

He pointed at Gunnar

“Nah, people keep calling me an asshole, I just happen to be a likeable asshole” Gunnar laughed.

He smirked a little. He sure was.

~*~

After roughly an hour of talking, Gunnar let him go to his room, bidding him a good day, good luck and a happy life if they never saw each other again.

And honestly… he felt better than he had in days. After struggling over such trivial things, it was nice not having to struggle or fight against anything. And it was honestly nice to just sit and talk with someone not throwing petty insults or sideways threats or expecting money out of him for simply being in their presence.

The last few days, he admitted to himself, were rough to say the least. Then again, he had never really been in a human dominated land before. His interactions with humans had always been elf dominated lands, where they had been blemishes on the otherwise enjoyable populous. Now it was the other way around, with him being the blemish against the pale skinned Nords. While it was the Nords being in his lands, they were merely annoying and loud bugs. In this land he gathered that the elves were quiet and complacent. And that did not bode well if he had to fight a Nord off.

He wished all Nords were like Gunnar. Even if that meant that there would be thousands of sarcastic ass-hats running around. It would mean that the Nords would be much more open minded about the other races. And perhaps then they would not be killing each other over the shape of one’s ears, eyes and one’s skin color. But sadly most Nords learned to be pigheaded bastards from their pigheaded parents, and those pigheaded children raised more pig-headed children. And the cycle went on and on. But, thankfully, Gunnar was different.

And he felt good enough to let himself smile. The alien motion made his cheeks feel weird, but at least it was genuine and not him faking it around the big Nord. Then again, he was sure that Gunnar would be able to tell the difference and call him out on it. And perhaps… with Nords like Gunnar around then some of them would learn something about not being bastards. Hopefully. Not always true.

And stripping himself of his armor he was able to slip into his bed comfortably and without any woes or troubles bothering his mind.

~*~

Cold, hard, wood, a slight breeze from frigid air rolling across his back.

His mind was already trying to register details even as it groggily dragged itself from the deep depths of slumber.

His wrists, waist and ankles were sore, like someone had grabbed them too tightly shortly ago. His face was pressed against splintery, cold wood, the slight drying of his lips suggesting that he had been unconscious for several hours already. The slight bitter taste on his tongue suggested some sort of drug slipped past his lips as he slept, the throbbing migraine confirming the suspicion.

His fingers curled against, slight aching in the joints suggested a mild paralytic agent had been added to make him complacent, even when he woke up. And upon realizing this, he focused past the pain in his head to see if any parts of his body felt violated. However, his skin did not sting with bruises, his butt did not hurt like it had been penetrated, his dick did not feel like it had been used or released recently, and the bitter taste on his mouth was definitely from the drug.

He forced his arms underneath himself and managed to shove himself up right, feeling every joint practically scream in protest, and groggily looked around. His migraine made his vision swim and triple for a moment before he forced his painful head to focus. When everything stopped swimming, he realized he was in a rickety old, basically barren things that had probably been left behind by the previous owners.

When his eyes had finally focused, his night vision kicked in. And that was when he heard the small sound within the same room. He spun around and saw three people, kneeling the floor with burlap sacks tied closed around their heads. And then he heard the smallest and breathest of chuckles.

Spinning around, he saw a small, darkly cloaked figure resting on top of a shelf.

“Sleep well?” A dark voice practically purred.

He looked up at the woman, blinking rapidly and started wheezing in confusion.

Well shit.


	7. Welcome, New Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still on Hiatus

He found himself on his knees, staring up at the woman on the shelf. He reached behind his head and pulled away his hood so that his eyes could pierce through the darkness. The yellows and reds and oranges of his undead eyes was sure to tip the woman off. But if she was surprised, the mask to her cowl and her cool and relaxed position showed nothing.

He scowled up at her, questioning. He heard a small amused noise.

“I know about Grelod” She purred “Then again, half of Skyrim knows. Old hag gets butchered in her own orphanage? Things like that get around”

He scowled more harshly, not sure what to do. It was not like he could speak for himself, damned useless throat. His brow crinkled with his frustration, and he heard another chuckle of amusement.

“Oh, but don’t misunderstand. I’m not criticizing. It was a good kill. Old crone had it coming. And you saved a group of urchins, to boot” 

Was she… really complimenting him? For strangling that old bitch in a fit of rage? It was not a good kill. It was sloppy and unprofessional. A good kill would be getting away with it cleanly, neatly, without a lick of emotion. Strangulation was only used to stage certain deaths to assuade suspicion. It was a terrible kill.

He got to his feet, his movements slow and measured. The woman remained relaxed.

“Ah, but there is a slight… problem”

His hands immediately went to his belt, but found that he had be relieved of his daggers at one point. The woman chuckled, a hollow, careless sound. One that had him swallowing thickly. His only weapons was his training and… his fangs. His hunger may have been killed, but he was sure that a drop of blood on his tongue would reawaken the blood drunk monster he once was.

“You see, that little Aretino boy was looking for the Dark Brotherhood. For me, and my associates. Grelod the Kind was, by all rights, a Dark Brotherhood contract. A kill… that you stole. A kill that you must repay”

He swallowed thickly again, body tensing in case the woman tried to attack him. He was not going to lose to this kidnapping bitch, not now, not ever. He was not going to die because of his mistakes. Sure, he already did once, but he sure as hell was never going to do die for real.

“If you turn around, you’ll notice my guests. I’ve ‘collected’ them from… well, that’s not really important. The here and now. That’s what matters”

Blinking slowly, he turned around and saw that on the far side of the room, there were three kneeled over figures with black hoods over their faces. Two humans, one young and most definitely male, the other old and female. Finally a Khajiit, male.

“I’m sure that you can guess what comes next”

~*~

Shaking like a leaf, he stumbled out of the blood stained shack, trying to get his thoughts straight.

He did not… he did not know what to think about what just happened. He was unsure what just happened. He did not know how to feel, overwhelmed? Happy? Overjoyed?

He had been extended an offer to join the Dark Brotherhood, so he finally had his assassins guild. But at the same time… something was just wrong. He was complimented on a kill that was terrible, just terrible. Not only that, but he should have been killed for stealing the kill in such an unseemingly manner. He should have been… but he was not.

Assassins did not recruit that way. They looked for signs of talent, sometimes trained from birth. You did not recruit an assassin that stole a kill, there was no way to guarantee that they did not turn around and betray the lot. Or that he was not a spy wanting to tear the guild apart from the inside.

He… he did not know how to feel.

Then why feel at all?

He had his guild, he had work. So, pushing all those thoughts aside, he decided to do what he did best. Killing in stealth, walking the shadows as though he were one himself. So, walking away from that bloodstained hut, with his weapons on hand, he started the long trek to Falkreath.

~*~

Being the undead had quite the advantage when one wanted to go long distances without having to worry about food or water. And since he had killed his appetite, he did not need to worry about blood.

So he walked without stopping for three days, through rain and snow, through night and day, past travelers of all shapes and sizes. And he did not stop walking, and merely kept going and going, unfazed by anything until he happened to walk by a familiar Khajiit.

Now, he did not seen the distinction between most Khajiit. They were furry, sly creatures that often consumed moon sugar and stole without a second thought. If one was orange, if one was silver, if one had breasts, or if one was male, he hardly bothered to look. He cared little to note their presence. 

However, this Khajiit was immediately notable in the fact that he was massive. Almost seven feet tall and all ripped muscle underneath snowy white, black blotted fur stuffed inside a suit of Dwarven armor. Not only that, but the creature wielded a rather intimidating mace and a large Dwarven shield.

Not only that, but he knew that massive creature. It was the massive Khajiit that escaped Helgen with him and the others. The mean looking Khajiit, as the big cat grew closer, he recalled that the creature was not only terrifying size wise, but in looks as well. A heavy brow, light blue eyes, massive sharp teeth, and laid back ears made the creature look always pissed and ready to kill.

And the Khajiit seemed to remember him, as they stopped in the road and the Khajiit seemed to regard him with a certain...less malice.

“Od-Kaaz remembers you” The Khajiit rumbled in that strange accent. His voice was like the echoes of thunder. Powerful, even if it was hollow, and something that left echoes in of itself behind in the ears of those that listened.

He nodded once to affirm it.

“Ah, the silent elf. The name… was Anton, correct?”

He nodded again.

“Doing well Od-Kaaz sees. This land of snow and Nords has proved unforgiving. This one is glad that Anton is doing well” Od-Kaaz rumbled with a slight nod of his head.

He made a motion towards the big cat’s armor and weapons, wondering where he had gotten them.

“Ah. When the stubborn Nords tried to put Od-Kaaz down, he put them down first. These are spoils of war. It took awhile to wash the filthy, mead stinking blood of these overgrown drunkards, but they have served Od-Kaaz well” The Khajiit growled.

He swallowed thickly. He did not want to be on the wrong end of Od-Kaaz’s anger. The massive creature was just downright terrifying to look at while he was calm. To imagine him as a pissed off tank of destruction… now that was something for even the Nords to be afraid off. And he had to wonder the sheer insanity it would take to try and face the Khajiit with nothing less but a small army.

“This one needs to head west some more. May the roads lead Anton to warm sands” The Khajiit rumbled.

He nodded, giving a stiff short bow as a way of saying good-bye. He started walking past the big Khajiit, only for the big cat to call after him after a ways.

“Those that traveled with us. They all had dark secrets, especially that half breed girl and that elf. You too as well, those eyes are not those of a living creature. Keep those undead eyes open, there are always those that wish to steal the secrets of immortality away from you” Od-Kaaz snarled before turning on his heels and walking.

He stood there for a very long time… letting those words tumble around his head like the thunder they sounded like.

And then he numbly started walking towards the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary. Because there was nothing for him to say, could not say it anyway with his useless throat. The big cat had seen right through him. And had voiced that fear that lay deep inside of him.

Fear of being killed, worse, being killed for being a vampire. He had already lived so long that he had become disturbing attached to his pathetic life. Strange how immortality drove one mad with fear of finally ending it. But… the cat was right. He needed to keep his eyes open, be weary of those around him. 

He was going to keep an eye out for that girl and that elf that was with him at Helgen. But not Gunnar, that man was too pure for anything too dark to haunt him. But that girl, she had the look of something cold in her eyes. Not to mention, the features of a Nord on a Brenton sized pipsqueak? She had to have some resentment towards her mixed blood. And that elf? High Elves were always trouble. And that accent meant that he had to be within the Dominion at one point. Thamlor were slimy bastards.

Yes. Keep his eyes open, his useless mouth shut, and his dead heart closed. He would make this place like any other he had lived in.

Hooking around some foliage, he came upon the door that he was told to look out for. The ominous looking skull with the black hand smear on the forehead was sure to deter any of those that would not delve too deeply into the darkness of the world’s truths. Perfect for hiding an assassins’ guild.

Approaching the door, it startled him by whispering

“What is the music of life?”

...Really? He was about to be foiled… by the damned door. He was about to lose his chance to enter the assassins’ guild because he could not open the damned door. This was fan-fucking-tastic. A joke, at the worst of times.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he breathed out deeply.

He was about to storm away in frustration, when the door opened. And who else would it be, other than Astrid? Save that the cowl that covered her head and face was gone, and he could see the sly, coy smile on her face, framed by washed out blonde hair.

“Ah, at last! Glad you found the place alright”

He just scowled and jabbed at the door accusingly. She could have warned him about the damned door.

“I was standing right here, waiting” She only said before motioning him inside.

Scowling, he followed her inside, the door heavily swinging shut behind him. And inside the dark, aged stone looked… cliche for an assassins’ guild. He did not think that all assassins had to be in some dark, rotten hidey hole somewhere. He snorted in laughter when they walked past a shelf with skulls on the shelves.

“You’re probably wondering what happens now. Well, what happens now is you start your new life in the Dark Brotherhood. You’re part of the family, after all” She purred, ignoring his earlier laughter “This, as you can see, is our Sanctuary. You won’t find a safer place in Skyrim. So get comfortable”

Well… a dark and rotten hidey hole could still be called a home. He did use to live in the hollowed inside of a tree when he was alive. As long as the beds were clean, he could not complain.

“Though a professional like you is probably wondering when you get a contract. Soon, my dearest, soon. I’m arranging a job for you, but I need some more time. For now go talk to Nazir. He may have some smaller contracts to tide you over. Soon, the Night Mother will arrive. And things around here are sure to get even more interesting”

Nodding, he was about to walk further into the Sanctuary, but was stopped with a gentle, lazy movement of Astrid’s hand. Walking over to a cabinet with a lazy swing in her hips, she came back with a set of black and red leather armor.

“One last thing. A welcome home present. The armor of the Dark Brotherhood. May it serve you well in all of your… endeavors”

Taking the armor, he was impressed with the craftsmanship as he ran his hands over it. Sturdy, but light. Dark, but not completely black, with the smallest trims of red that were faded and not to vivid. It included a hood and a cowl, also dark but not black. Someone made the armor with an assassin’s needs in mind, no just a repurposed rouge’s armor. He made a note to try it on later.

“And make sure to introduce yourself to the other members of the family. They are eager to meet you” Astrid said before walking away, probably to do guild master’s things.

Well… as much as her feigned laziness in her movements, as though to appear that she was a master, annoyed him. As much as the base was right out of a romance novel, and as much as the door was completely useless, this was not too bad. Their armor was custom made, they were not too well known, and the guildmaster actually arranged contracts. So… he decided to stick around.

And with that in mind, he tucked his new armor into his pack and silently trotted downstairs to meet the new members of his guild.


	8. On the Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe not

“I see that you are getting along with our new brother” Gabriella noted.

“It is not often I meet another of my kind in my like of work” Babette smiled as he sat perched on a rock below her table. He stroked the spider’s side as it crawled around in its little water hole “Even if he is not the chattiest of things, his company is still welcome”

“And how does a professional get his throat carved out?” The dark elf purred, peeking over the small cliff to look down at him.

He drew his thumb over his throat and made a noise at the back of his noise.

“Someone tried to kill you? I assume they failed” She smiled.

He bared his fangs.

“Oooh! Death by draining, beautiful” She sighed.

He found himself rather liking the assassins. Each found entertainment in death, whether they found it beautiful like one would find art beautiful, or found a sick humor in making the most interesting death. Immature children holding a secret, he found them amusing. But he could see the talent, the love for the dark art, the genuine loyalty for the guild. So he tolerated them.

“Anton has also made it clear that he does not drink blood” Babette noted “Cut off the habit and has remained vigilant since”

“Really? And how did you manage that, Anton?”

He tapped his throat.

“After someone tried to kill you?”

He made a back motion with his hand.

“Before? My, that must have taken some impressive willpower. Not many creature can simply stop eating their prey. I know Babette gets rather cranky if she does not feed at least twice a week” Gabrielle chuckled.

“I’ll remember that the next time you need poison for a contract” Babette coyly chuckled back.

“Oh, you love me and you know it. Oh, and dear Anton, have you gotten your first contracts yet? I know Nazir was rather frazzled, but it should not have taken this long…”

“Right here” Nazir said as he entered the little room “Now… wait, where’s Anton?”

“Down there. Now, let me see what he gets” Gabriella said, disappearing.

Getting to his feet, he jumped over the water and climbed the incline to see Gabriella reading over the pieces of papers that were meant for him. She seemed highly amused by what he got, based on the smirk playing across her dark blue lips.

“The beggar Nazir, ex-miller Ennodius Papius, and the mine boss Beitild… what are these? Bottom of the barrel jobs?” Gabrielle laughed.

“They are the ones left over from the first batch. No one will take them, so of course I’m trying to pass them off onto Anton” Nazir said, snatching the jobs back “Now, they don’t pay much. But they’re some good starting jobs. Something to get your name around, some coin in your pocket. And something to give Astrid some time in getting that big contract ready”

He only nodded and held his hand out for the pieces of paper. Placing them in his hand, he stuffed them into his pack.

“Oh, before you go, dear” Babette said, walking over to one of the cupboards. She stepped on her tiptoes, scooped up something and then walked back over to him “A small present, from one member of the undead to another”

A set of daggers, Orcish by their looks. An improvement over his own, so he gladly took them, sliding his finger along the edge. Good to go for a good sharpening, but the weight was an improvement in his hands. Felt a lot better in his hands then the light weight daggers.

He held the daggers in his hands for a moment, then the slightest movements sent the daggers sliding across the backs of his hands and then back into his palms backhanded style. Sliding his index fingers back and tucking them in between the hilt, he started sliding the daggers between his fingers. Slowly at first, but faster and faster, seeing exactly what he could do with the daggers. They were top heavy, probably because the Orcs just needed a backup weapon for stabbing and not the most delicate killings.

Sliding the daggers into his belt loops, he gave the pretty vampire girl a smile. She smiled back, baring fangs in a playful manner.

Oh yes, he thought he was going to get along swimmingly with these children.

~*~

The first he hit was Beitild, all the way in Dawnstar. It required some hoofing on his part to travel that distance across the map. However, as he entered the little city drowning in snow and cold, it was midnight, the darkest hour. Not only that, but most everyone was sleeping, or was still a few pints from being kicked out of the local tavern. So he had ample timing.

Following the instructions on the note, he silently crept towards the house with Beitild. There was a simple, rusty lock on the door. It took only a half second to pick it and step inside of the dimly lit house.

The fire was dying, eating up the last bit of the wood that had been set out for it. It smelled faintly of cooked vegetables, likely the poor bastard’s last meal. Said poor bastard was lying in bed, snoring away. Quite deeply, judging by the noise that she was making. She would soon be silent forever.

He cared not why someone wanted this woman dead, only vaguely lamenting the actions that she did to piss off the dark bastard that would contract the Dark Brotherhood to kill her. The actions that lead to one’s death were important, as it lead to the last important date in someone’s life. And while in the past he knew more about his targets, he knew nothing of this woman.

So as he leaned over her sleeping form, posing the knife to plunge into her lung, he threw her a silent thought

‘Pray that the gods have more fortune on you in your afterlife, then they gave you in your life’

One hand came slamming down on her mouth, the other plunged into her lung. The woman’s eyes snapped open, gurgling behind his hand as she started to choke on her own blood. She thrashed, her screams muffled by his hand. But between the dagger tightly wedged between her ribs and the strong hand on her mouth, she could not get the leverage to move away.

After several moments, he felt something hot and wet on the hand covering her mouth. It was followed by more liquid, and soon the woman’s thrashing started to lessen. More and more and more until she weakly whined around his hand and then fell silent in death. Making sure that she was dead, he pulled his hand away dripping in blood and then pulled out his crimson stained dagger.

Impassively staring at the blood, he looked around her small house until he came upon a basin of water. Carefully washing himself off in the slightly dingy water, he carefully washed his dagger off and then took a wet cloth and walked over to the corpse. He wiped up the blood dripping from her mouth and then around the wound. He did this several times to catch the freely dripping blood. And when it seemed that the corpse had bled enough, he changed her tunic, threw the bloodstained one into the fire, let the fire do it’s work, and then doused the fire with the blood water.

More blood would form around the wound, and more would drip from her mouth. But at first glance, the woman appeared sleeping peacefully. It would give him the time to get away, and perhaps take more than a day or two for anyone to realize what had happened. Enough time to get his contracts done with at least.

~*~

Since it was close, he went for the one west of Windhelm. Ennodius Papius, he would be hanging around a small camp a little ways of a wood mill. Not only would be out of sight of the mill, but also out of hearing range. An almost too perfect spot to kill someone.

It was evening out by the time he had managed to locate the little camp. There was still light out to seek him, and he was feeling too excited to wait for night to strike. He was doing what he loved most again, and the high was getting to him. However, he was still capable of making smart decisions. He just had to keep his footsteps silent, sneak up on the man from behind.

The snow and sticks across the ground made that hard as he approached, but he was trained to be as silent as death no matter the terrain. He was not going to let some snow get in his way.

The man was sitting on a sleeping roll by a fire, humming to himself. Judging by the way he was humming, the man already had some drinks in him, or was tone deaf. Either or was good for him, it just meant a better element of surprise.

Crouching down low, he had his daggers out, fully prepared to plunge one or two into the man’s spine and then slit his throat. He could afford for the kill to be a bit more noisy since he did not have to worry about frightening neighbors and guards. However, that did not mean that he would be sloppy or messy with the kill. He would stop chance of movement and then noise, and with the man’s throat slit, he would hide the body in the woods and let nature take its course.

Coming in close, he brought his arm back and was about to snap it forward when the man turned.

Precious moments where his mind wanted to try and come up with a reason for why the man turned were harshly rewired to put thought into his movements. The dagger jumped in his hand, changing to backhand style, and then snapped forward in a powerful slash. The dagger sliced through the air, and the man’s throat, carving a grim smile into the flesh. And a split second later, blood sprayed him as the man’s life was drained away in a crimson spray.

He thought that he could just impassively ignore the blood as wait for the man to bleed to death. But the delicious coppery smell, the heat on his face, the thickness of the liquid dripping down his cheeks. He felt something similar and ugly rise in his guts, and suddenly realized that he wanted to blood, wanted it like a cold cut skooma addict wanted their drug after weeks without.

He reeled as the man fell to the ground thrashing like a landed fish, tensing up when his fangs poked the inside of his lip. Jumping over the man, he made a break for the river, not giving a damn that it would be colder then a hagraven’s tit. He needed to get the blood off. Before he became that beast again, before he became that monster that tore that poor man apart to feed himself.

The water was shallow when he threw himself in. Only came up to his knees, but deep enough that he could flop on his hands and knees and plunge his face and chest into the bitingly cold waters and cleanse himself. And with the first smack of cold water quickly killed that urge, made the beast jump back into the darkest part of his mind. When he pulled back out of the water, he felt his fangs slip back further into his gums, the need suddenly killed.

For a moment, he sat in that cold water, breathing hard.

So… the need had not been killed. Merely tamed. And thinking about it, he had been careful all these years. Not letting a drop get too close to his face lest he smell that delicious red life water a little too closely. Perhaps it was best that he be more careful. Or better yet, work on clearing away the rust from his skills, as it seemed that they were most rusty then he thought if the man heard him.

Sighing, he stood on two feet again and walked back to the corpse. Blood was pooling around the man’s throat and there was not much he could do about that. The kill was too messy to salvage. So he just dragged it out into the woods, gather a few sticks and such to cover up parts of it, and then left nature to take it’s course.

He would do better. He would not get caught. He would not be killed again.

~*~

He headed west towards Ivarstead and his last contract. The beggar, if he recalled, Narif. He hung around an abandoned house, sometimes straying to sit on the banks of the river. Now, rivers were an excellent place to drop bodies. But the abandoned house was higher up the river then the rest of the town. The body would be seen as it drifted.

So he needed to end the beggar’s life in the house. It was likely no one cared for him, so it would be awhile before the body would be found in there.

And lucky for him that a rainstorm had started in as he approached the town. People were ushering themselves inside houses as the guards miserably kept to their patrols. And as he maneuvered towards the house, he saw the beggar duck inside the ruins of what he assumed to be the abandoned house.

Get in, get out, go cash in the contracts.

Taking out one of his daggers, he silently approached the house. Slipping in, he heard the beggar grumbling about his bad luck, hacking wetly. So the man was sick, then perhaps a quick death would be a mercy rather than letting the sickness kill him? After his last kill, he needed to check himself this time around.

Hooking around a corner, he peeked around a wall and saw the beggar huddled in a corner, shivering miserably. The man did not hear his footsteps as he approached, coughing too loudly. The man did not hear the knife as it sliced through the air and dove into his neck. His shout of pain was cut short when a hand came up to cover his mouth.

The sound of rain as it poured down harder drowned out the man’s muffled screams.

It took only a few moments for the stream of blood to finally take the man’s life away. And after a few moments of the man’s struggles to stop, he pulled away, his hand stained in red as well as his daggers. He let the rain wash it away.

As the man’s thinned blood was washed down between the old wooden floor boards, he was already walking back in the direction of the Sanctuary, not letting the chance for his hunger to make a return.


	9. Pretty Little Lamb

As he stepped down the stairs further into the Sanctuary, he his ears picked up an new and familiar voice coming from within. That high pitched, high strung voice with the slightest bit of constant amusement within… surely it was not that strange jester? Then again… that jester had the makings of a damned good assassin. Perhaps it was…

Coming out into the main chamber, Anton saw it was indeed the strange jester. And the coffin he was with before was also here, though now standing up and boarded up.

“But the Night Mother is mother to all! It is her voice we follow! Her will! Would you dark risk disobedience? And surely… punishment?” The jester shrilly yelled, stomping his feet in clear frustration.

“Keep talking, little man, and we’ll see who gets ‘punished’” Arnbjorn snarled like the animal he was.

“Oh, be quiet you lumbering lapdog. This man has made a long journey. At least be civil” Festus sneered, while Arnbjorn glared darkly “Mister Cicero, I for one am delighted you and the Night Mother have arrived. Your presence here signals a welcome return to tradition”

“Ooooh!” Cicero grinned “What a kind and wise wizard you are. Sure to earn our Lady’s favor”

“You and the Night Mother are of course welcome here, Cicero. And you will be afforded the respect deserving of you position as Keeper” Astrid sighed, with mock respect “Understood, husband?”

Arnbjorn growled.

Cicero suddenly took to a jig, startling everyone with how quickly it came on. Or perhaps it was the twisted grin carved into the jester’s face?

“Oh, yes yes yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Cicero cheered in a sing song voice with the face of someone who was utterly… happy.

“But” Astrid said firmly, teeth clenched “Make no mistake. I am the leader of this Sanctuary. My word is law. Are we clear on that point?”

“Oh yes, mistress. Perfectly! You’re the boss” Cicero said with a dark glint to his otherwise joyous expression. 

It seemed that the jester was not fooled by the woman’s bravado. Like he knew who the real boss was, and it was not her. But Astrid seemed to gloss right over it, because she smirked coyly. The two were sure to get up to something. If they caused the guild to burn down, he would place the blame squarely on their shoulders.

With that nasty business out of the way, Cicero turned to the crate, humming happily to himself. Astrid noted his presence and gave a short jerk of her head, motioning him to leave with her into another room, likely away from the joyous jester.

Following the pissed of guild master, she lead him over to the small blacksmith station that was Arnbjorn’s. While her husband grinded away angrily on a sword, she leaned against the workbench.

“Thank the gods you’re here. I was done speaking with that muttering fool. We’ve got some business to discuss” She said, still sounding rather peeved “I’ve got your contract ready”

He nodded.

“You must go to the city of Markarth, and find the apothecary’s assistant. You’ll probably find her in The Hag’s Cure, when the shop is open. The girl’s been running her mouth, wants an ex-lover killed. She’s apparently performed the Black Sacrament” Astrid sighed “Her name is Muiri. I need you to talk to her-”

He gave Astrid a glare. The woman stared at him blankly for a moment and then chuckled softly.

“So to speak. Set up the contract, and carry it out. Just do whatever the contact wishes. Be professional, represent us well, and get the job done. Since it’s your first contract, I’ll let you keep whatever Murir pays. She’ll be generous, I’m sure. They always are”

He nodded and then went to cash in his contracts with Nazir first. He had hoped to get a bow to use alongside his daggers. He needed to work on his exceptionally rusty archery skills, as well as his close combat skills. However he did not have the money to afford a decent one or hire a blacksmith to make him one.

Nazir was glad that they were done, having a few witty comments to make about each that had him rolling his eyes. The damned puns were going to be the death of him. At least each contract netted him four hundred gold each, quite a pretty catch of coin. Surely it was enough for a good bow, or perhaps better daggers. Maybe he needed to wait until this new contract paid?

Placing the money away, he started for the door out. However, he saw Cicero dancing around the crate. And… he was drawn to the strange jester. Perhaps it was the way that insanity dripped off the crazy little jester, perhaps dark curiosity on his part. Perhaps he simply found Cicero interesting?

He approached the little man, watching him dance around the box, humming to himself. When the jester’s eyes laid on him, the man let out a shrill sound.

“Oooh! If it isn’t Cicero’s friend from the road! You helped poor, poor Cicero convince that stubborn farmer to help him and Mother, and now she’s home!” Cicero cheered, dancing around in one spot “Thank you, thank you friend!”

He nodded, watching the jester bounce.

“Oh! Dear friend, you never gave Cicero a name to call you! Only pretty eyes to remember, pretty eyes and bloody colored tattoos! Will you give Cicero a name to call you?” The Jester asked, eyes wide in excitement.

Pulling out his journal, he scribbled his name down and showed the jester.

“Hmm, Anton? Oh, what a lovely name, lovely name! Ah, but Cicero has ears, you could have spoken the name… Or perhaps that scar that Cicero remembers is more extensive than he thought? Perhaps the pretty eyed elf is silent? Hmm, hmm, hmm?”

He did not know if he liked having his eyes referred to as ‘pretty’ or not. Or why he found the jester such a delight to be around. Perhaps he was so bored with all the drab that someone with life, with energy, was a refreshing change. But he nodded to answer the jester’s question, which delighted the little man to no end.

“Oh, oh oh! Silence is the music of life! To be blessed with it, how fun! Cicero is forever surrounded by noise, all the noise, noise, noise! For the pretty eyed Anton to be blessed with silence is a truly wonderful thing”

He shrugged. Sometimes the sheer lack of noise in his life was maddening. Reminded him of that time spent underground. He did not mind noise, so long as it was not annoying or displeasent.

“What a lovely sound silence is, Cicero rarely gets to hear it with all the noise in his head, so many voices and whispers. Sometimes he thinks that Mother is talking to him, but Mother only speaks to the Listener. Oooooh, if only the Listener would show up, Cicero is sure that Mother lounging for the one that can hear her voice”

He cocked his head to the side, genuinely interested. Who was this Mother? And what was this Listener?

However, Astrid snapped for him to get to it, and he had to bid the jester a farewell.

“It is alright, there are nice people here for Cicero to be with. Mother will be taken care of, set up all nice and pretty. Besides, duty calls, and it is not wise to ignore it!” Cicero chirped.

He nodded and walked off, determined to get this contract done with so he could return quickly.

~*~

When the door slammed shut behind Anton, Astrid stalked over to the jester, still merrily walking around the crate that held the coffin that had the Night Mother’s body. She had seen the little man talking to their newest recruit, she had seen the elf was deeply fascinated with the jester. And she was not going to have such promising talent be swayed to the ‘traditional’ ways of the Dark Brotherhood.

It had been a long time before she found a talent with actual experience rather than raw, green talent. She was not going to lose this elf to the blasted Night Mother.

“Cicero” She sneered.

The jester stopped his dancing to turn to look at her fully. She saw… something dark and dangerous in his eyes. And that something was more than the look of a killer. Something more than love for death. This… was something terrifying.

“Yes, Mistress? What can humble Cicero do for you?” The jester smiled.

“I saw you talking with the elf” She snapped.

“Ah! Pretty eyed Anton! Anton is such a lovely fellow! Very nice, very professional!” Cicero grinned, bouncing on the heels of his feet “Anton was very kind, helped poor Cicero when he was in trouble, helped mother get here”

“He has joined MY brotherhood. He will follow MY rules. Do not fill his head with the ways of other sects of the Dark Brotherhood” She said firmly.

This got her a smile that was the darkest, angrist, and twisted thing she had ever seen. This smile was the sheerest embodiment of insanity then she had ever seen. This was something black. Something twisted. Something scary. Something terrifying. This was something that she should not have provoked.

“Dear Astrid… if pretty little Anton wishes to convert to the traditional, the old ways, then I am obliged to lead the pretty little lost lamb there” Cicero said through that black and twisted grin “If he wishes to follow the Night Mother, then bound by my ways, I am to to lead him”

Staring wide eyed at this… this twisted creature. This twisted being of sheer hatred, insanity and everything black in the world. All of these terrifying things stuffed inside such a seemingly innocent little man. This was not a creature to be tampered with. This was not a creature to be bossed around. This was a creature willed by the dark forces at work inside his head. She would not be surprised if this creature was willed by Sithis himself.

“...Fine” She said, trying not to dwell on the tremor of fear in her voice “I shall simply have to convert him myself”

“Ooh, Mistress can try, Mistress will fail” Cicero sang “For Cicero has the Night Mother on his side, and he will never fail as long as he has her”

This creature… was something else.

And as she walked away, she heard the jester humming to himself

“Pretty red eyes, like dying suns. Pretty red tattoos, like spilled blood. Pretty little elf, pretty like Mother. Pretty lost lamb come home, follow the Keeper to pretty Mother”

~*~

Scratching at his burning ears, Anton wondered vaguely was someone was talking about him. Perhaps it was just the changing air. He was cutting through a colder section before walking into the warmer and more humid air of Markarth, and after the humid air of Falkreath, perhaps it was just the changing air.

Perhaps it was nothing.

Walking along the road, Anton was glad that he changed out his armor. He sold the leather armor to a shopkeeper in Falkreath, and then pulled on the armor that Astrid had given him. With that armor on, he was surprised by how well it fitted him. Then again, assassins were always taught to have good eyes. Astrid probably made some good guesses when she stared at him in the hut.

With the armor on, he fashioned the pelts into a warm cloak with a hood. Not only did the cloak keep him warm, but it hid the black and red armor away from the prying eyes of the public. And with both the hood and cowl pulled up, one could only make out his eyes. His identity was safe. And when he wanted to perform assassinations at night, he only had to discard the cloak and he would disappear into the night.

Needless to say, he was in a chipper mood as he walked about. He even hummed the broken little tune that he had heard Cicero hum. Though the meaning was lost on him, it was a merry little, broken tune. And he blissfully walked down the road and towards Markarth for his first big contract.


	10. Red Temptations

Entering the city… proved the entertaining experience. 

Perhaps that was the wrong word. Entertaining would mean that he found some amusement out of the situation. Because having a knife held against his throat and a Brenton’s arm around his torso, as the guards tried to talk the man down was not entertaining in the least bit for him.

“I’ll gut him! I WILL”

He sighed. He just wanted to get the contract done and over with and this happens? It did not bode well for his luck for the rest of the day.

“Calm down, no need to slit some elf’s throat” A guard said, hands out in a peaceful way.

The knife was pressed further against his throat, scraping along the thin leather above the thick scar there. He just sighed through his nose. Here he had hoped that the guards would talk the man down before he resorted to pulling out any fancy moves that would have the guards eyeing him.

“STAY BACK!”

Oh well-

An arrow seemingly sprouted from the man’s eye socket. Grunting once in death, the man fell into a crumpled heap on the ground as the guards turned to look at the arrow’s owner.

Above a bridge that overlooked a river that cut through the city, stood a spiritly dark haired youth that judging by sheer size alone was either a younger teenager or a pale skinned Brenton. However, as the female jumped off the bridge and came stalking over with the stride of someone with great confidence, he saw that the woman carried distinct Nord features on a frame that was more suited for a Brenton.

And then he remembered the girl. The half breed girl with black hair and bright red painted lips. She was with him when he fled with the others away from the dragon. The one, that true to her two different blood lines, wielded both sword and spell with ease. The girl that had also shown him great concern, as he recalled. He approached her cautiously.

The girl has stepped down to chew out the guards, obviously miffed that she had to step in.

“I realize that I’m Thane of this godforsaken city, but that doesn’t mean I’m supposed to babysit you lot. If there’s crime, I’m not always there to catch it. This poor elf almost had his throat carved out because you milk drinkers wouldn’t step up” She growled.

When she had the guards backing up, he came up and tapped her shoulder. She spun on her heels, looking like she wanted to kill something. But upon seeing him more closely, quickly relaxed.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Anton. How have you been, my silent friend?” She asked.

He nodded once and gave the spunky girl a smile.

“Well, you’re living, you have armor and you don’t have a black eye. So it can’t be too bad” She said, hook the bow around herself “Still, you’ve probably had it rough. Someone should have asked if you had been in Nord lands before. Have you?”

He shook his head.

“Damn, sorry about whatever shit you’ve had to deal with then” She sighed “Nords are not known for their love of other races”

He shrugged.

“Well, at least you haven’t been raped, murdered, mugged or sold on a slave market. So consider yourself luckier than some non-Nord and non-human races” Rayvahn said stoically “Or like my mother long ago, sold to a brothel many years ago. Anyway, I have a few guards to whip into shape, so I’ll let you go about your business. If you have any troubles, just say you know the Thane”

He nodded and headed towards the Hag’s Cure.

~*~

The apothecary carried the potent scents of hundreds of herbs, mixed potions, as well as the thicker humidity of Markarth, the smell of the mines and always the lingering smells of mead that seemed to stain Skyrim’s air. Between the hundreds of different scents and the mine, he had no idea how anyone would a sense of smell could linger in the shop for more than a moment.

The answer to why the shop’s owner stayed came when he saw her tattooed and aged face. The elderly always did lack a keen sense of smell, did they not? Though he doubted that the woman was this Muiri person. So, stepping in, acting casual as he perused the offered potions and herbs, he noted a much younger woman hunched over a table.

He was about to approach her when he realized… he could not say anything to her. And here was where the disadvantages of being a mute. When one needed complete silence, it was always there. When one needed to communicate properly, the silence was still there. And it was not like he could whip out a symbol of the Dark Brotherhood-

...That was an idea.

Hands working underneath his cloak, he pulled out his piece of charcoal and began scrubbing it across one palm. When the palm was completely blackened, he approached the young woman and tapped her shoulder with the non-blackened hand.

She turned and saw him standing there.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” She asked.

Skittish little thing, probably on the look out for her assassin to arrive. So he lifted up the blackened palm to show her that he had arrived. And after looking at the raised hand with a raised eyebrow, her eyes got big.

“The Dark Brotherh-… Oh. Oh! I… my goodness, you’re, really here! The Black Sacrament. It actually worked?”

He nodded, dropping his hand and wiping it along his thigh. At least the charcoal would not stand out too much past the dark leather. Still, he made note to clean the smear off later. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his notebook and writing charcoal again, scribbling down a note.

_Yes. Now what need can the Dark Brotherhood fulfill?_

Peering at the note, the woman nodded off to a side room, away from prying ears of the shopkeeper. Though the old lady did not seem to care what they were doing. And in a small area that probably served as the shop keeper’s living quarters at night, the woman seemed to take on a whole new persona. Going from the skittish, shy woman to the vindictive shrew in a split second.

“What I need? What I need is for Alain Dufont to die! I want him hunted down and murdered like the dog he is!”

Seemed simple enough, however there were several key things missing. Like a location.

_I am going to need a few more details then that, Miss Muiri_

“I didn’t know it when we were… with each other… but Alain is actually the leader of a band of cutthroats. Bandits. They’re holed up in some Dwarven ruin, Raldbthar. It’s near Windhelm, They use it as their base. It’s where they stage their raids. I want you to go to that ruin, find Alain Dufont, and kill him. I don’t care about his friends. Do whatever you want with them. But Alain has to die!”

_It shall be done_

“Excellent. Once Alain is dead, I’ll pay you. I’ve saved up a bit. I hope that’ll do”

He nodded and was about to turn when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning back, he saw that Muiri has something else to say.

“But, well… There is one more thing. If you’re interested?”

He cocked his head in an intrigued manner.

“If you can… I want you to kill someone else, as well. You don’t have to, not part of our deal. But if you do… I’ll pay you even more. It’s Nilsine Shatter-Shield, in Windhelm. If Nilsine dies, too… I’ll make it worth your while...”

~*~

Stalking along the outer ruins, he clutched his new Elven bow.

The blacksmith, much to his delight, had been an Orc. And she gladly got him set up with a bow within a reasonable price. She even threw in a full quiver of steel arrows. And while he had not particular love for Elven smithing, as it was always too gaudy and far too intricate for his practical needs, it was the best thing that he could afford without sicing Rayvahn on the smith.

When he notched an arrow, the tautness of the drawstring was good. He felt the power in his bow and felt it in his arms. And he even felt it as the arrow zipped through the air to pierce the neck of a bandit. The man held his bleeding neck, gagging on his own blood. He was down after a few moments of thrashing and gagging. 

The body hitting the ground alerted the other bandit patrolling the door. Surprisingly it was a female Bosmer. She bent over the dead body before pulling out a bow and started hunting around for him. Though that would have been hard with him carefully wedged between the branches of a tree. He simply waited for her to go back to the body before drawing another arrow. Carefully aiming it at the back of her head, he let it fly.

Wiggling out of his hiding spot, he dropped down the stairs and quickly jogged up the steps, passing by the two bodies, one with an arrow through the neck and the other with an arrow through the back of the head. And that, he passed through the doors and into the Dwarven ruins.

Inside, it was hot and humid, compared to the bitter coldness outside. It was also dimly lit, so he tucked his cloak aside, feeling so much better without the heat of the thing holding so much heat. Drawing his daggers, he stalked forward.

The first to fall to his daggers was a sleeping bandit. One slit throat and a clamped hand over their mouth, and then a concealing blanket. A good kill.

Progressing he had to jump over jetstreams of fire, thanking his small frame for the agility to do such a thing. However, once he had that, he approached the door that was between him and his target. That and a lock. However, even if his thief ways were old and rusty, locks were always his most mastered ability.

Taking out his tools, he had the locked cracked in a few seconds.

Cracking open the door, he unleashed an arrow. It pierced right through a bandit’s throat, and seeing the girl down and out, Alain and his other friend got to their feet.

“What in the name of Oblivi-”

An arrow pierced through the man’s eye, dropping the man. Steel armor crashed to the ground with a loud thud as he came zipping across the room, daggers drawn. The bastard screamed as he jumped, a black clad elf with Orcish daggers like posed fangs, and then slammed down, daggers finding purchase in the man’s neck.

Alain fell, him perched on his chest as blood just gushed from the man’s neck. He pulled his neck back, feeling his fangs slipping from his gums as the scent of the delicious life water filled his nose.

Just a few more moments so that the could bleed out-

“T-Tell… Muiri…” The man gagged, blood dripping from his mouth “Tell… her… G-good play, b-bitch”

And the man died.

~*~

It was dark in Windhelm when he came stalking into the city, trying to find Nilsine. There was an edge of anger to this steps, only because he could still feel his fangs poking the insides of his lips. He had been too close to the blood, inhaled it too long before he could tear himself away from the bastard’s corpse. And not even the city’s horrid stench of piss, mead and vomit could dull his raging hunger.

He did not want to think about it, but her self control was just slipping away. Everything that he had built seemed no match for the sheer amount for blood he seemed to have to deal with. Or perhaps it was simply the Nords?

When he was an avid blood drinker, he found the human races to carry the most delicious blood. Between their hearty diets or simply the sheer amount of blood they carried, he found himself drawn to the throats of Nords, Imperials and Redguards more than the other races. Not even the cannibals of his own people has such great tasting blood.

Or perhaps it was just a psychological thing? After so long of being pushed around, to stalk such powerful and large prey was just that more satisfying. It fulfilled the need to push after so long after being pushed.

Pushing that all aside, he stalked through the streets, the iron grip he had on his daggers hidden by his cloak. He was going to slit the girl’s throat and then just run for it. Report to Muiri and then hide in a dark little hole until the hunger subsided. Figure out a means to get his tolerance to avoiding blood back.

In the graveyard, he found the girl coming out of the crypt, carrying an empty flower basket. Mourning the dead that she would soon be joining. He just needed to slit the girl’s throat, draining her of that delicious, hot, coppery liquor-

He was drooling at the thought of the blood that he would be shedding. He needed to stop. He needed to flee. He needed to get away. But his feet were already moving, going towards the girl and her tempting viens.

His fangs unsheathed, cutting open the inside of his lips. He tasted the thin excuse of his own blood, awful in taste from being undead for so long and being so little. And the bitter blood on his parched tongue shook him free of his blood haze. He realized that he was about to become that monster that he once was. He was going to tear the woman open to bleed her dry. Not because of the stupid woman’s wants, not because of the money, but because he was so hungry. 

The hunger was painful, to the point of tears. His tongue was dry and inflated in his mouth, his fangs leaving cuts on the inside of his lips and tongue. His throat felt like it was dry paper tearing apart.

Ripping his notebook open, he scribbled something down on a paper, ripped it out and stormed towards the woman, holding his breath. Reaching her, he pulled her around not gently and shoved the note against her bosom before storming past her towards the tavern.

Nilsine would read the note as:

_‘You may wish to speak to Muiri, she wanted you dead’_


	11. Failed Addictions

Inside the tavern, he held a hand up to his mouth as he approached the bar counter with his hood and cowl down, ignoring the drunk blonde Nord next to him. The bartender looked at him with a raised eyebrow, before he slid a note towards her

‘ _I was punched in the mouth_ ’

She nodded, reaching under the counter with a mug of stale water. Taking a few heft pinches of salt, she added it and sloshed the water around until it was mixed before handing it off. Pulling his bloodied hand away, he took the water and took a heaft mouthful, washing it around in his mouth until he was sure that the salt was in all the cuts. And upon tasting the salty water, his fangs retracted into his gums again.

Spitting it back into the cup, he gave the bartender a few coins for the trouble as she took it and dumped it into a hole in the ground, likely where she dumped dirty water from washing the counter.

He scribbled down ‘ _Heavy mead_ ’ on the note and tossed a few more gold onto the counter. She nodded, taking a bottle from underneath the counter and handing it to him. Pulling the cork out with his fingers, not his teeth lest he lose it, and then down the too sweet and too alcoholic ingredients. 

The bartender nodded in respect as he downed it without coughing or sputtering, not that she needed to know that the burn of his thirst was nothing compared to the burn of the alcohol. The Nord next to him just scowled darkly.

“So you can drink… you fucking think you’re worth anything elf?”

His hand came up and then slammed down on the man’s knee. Said Nord buckled and crumpled to the ground, groaning and clutching his knee. He was in no mood to deal with any fucking, bigoted asshole.

Was he angry? Yes. But mostly at himself. For years he had thought he had killed the hunger inside of him, only to find out that the temptation was always there, that he was only kidding himself after so long. He really was a monster after all, all tucked inside of a weak and pathetic looking elf body. 

And perhaps he was mad about that too. All this power at his fingertips and refused to use it, and for what? A couple of racist Nords? He should have just given in, be the monster that he was. Not like he cared or anyone cared for him, or at least not anymore. His family was long since rotted and the only people he called friends was Babette, Cicero and Gunnar. Babette was a monster like him, Cicero was crazy, and he did not know if he was ever going to get the chance to see Gunnar again.

And this loneliness… he thought he had killed it too… was he really that weak?

So sure, he was itching for a fight, too bad that the bastard had a bum knee. If only he had a bigger, worthy fight to pick. Perhaps upstairs?

“That’ll teach you, Sindri” The bartender laughed as he took his drink and moved upstairs.

Upstairs was even less impressive. Just a bunch of drunkards, and a few civilians milling about. There went his fight. Oh well, he would drink his mead in peace and then go see if he could find some bandits on the roads. At least he could kill bandits.

Walking by a hefty Nord in steel armor, the drunkard spewed something that could have almost been words at him. He turned on his heels, snarling loudly. And seeing as he was not going to back down like a little bitch, the Nord turned back to his drink. And miffed about his lost fight, he stalked over to a chair and dead weight dropped into it.

Sipping angrily from his drink, he wondered what he should have done next. He needed to report back to Muiri, at least tell her that Alain was dead. She would be upset when she found out that Nilsine was alive, and worse yet, knew that she wanted her dead. He would need to report back to the Brotherhood… Astrid was going to be so pissed about him spilling.

Maybe he would get lucky and Nilsine would pass off the note as a joke-

The steel armored Nord abruptly sat up, wobbling on his feet as he struggled to stand straight. All the while he just kept spewing garbled noise that must have been words to his ears. He pulled out two maces from his belt after several failed attempts, and then staggered over to him.

“Fuckin’... elf” The Nord slurred.

Oh yes…

He stood up, shedding his cloak calmly. In just the light weight black and red armor, he beckoned the big Nord to come at him, not even bothering to unsheath his daggers. He could take down this big bastard without them.

The Nord swung a mace at him, he easily ducked. He kicked the Nord’s knee, staggering him. The Nord swung again, he came in close, tucked himself close against the Nord’s chest, twisted around, grabbed the Nord’s wrist and used it to bring the bastard’s own mace down on his other knee. Rolling out of the way, he avoided the Nord folding in on himself as he fell in pain.

He was about to congratulate himself for such a swift ass kicking when a hand grabbed the back of his neck and yanked him upwards. His hands grabbed on, trying to pry them thick fingers away from his neck as he was walked over to the wall. Bracing for impact, he was slammed face first against it, teeth rattling in his jaw. He felt splinter rub against his cheek, piercing the unprotected skin.

“Fucking elf, think that you can fight back against a Nord?” A heavy voice drawled behind him.

He snarled, mind desperately trying to think if something to get himself out of the situation. The bastard had a hand around his neck and he was pressed against a wall. Sure, the Nord would not be able to choke him out, but he would notice he he was not getting breathless soon. He needed-

His fangs shot out before he could finish his thought. Yes, that was always a solution. Use the power that he was afraid of using for some gods damned reason. Drain the big bastard dry of every fucking drop of his worthless blood. It was not like he could not carve his way out of the city when they found out he was a vampire. And the thought of all that blood made him have to swallow several times to choke back all the saliva as he drolled at the thought.

“Ought to teach you a less, elf”

Drain the bastard dry, drain anyone else that got in his way. Drain them all until he was drowning in an beautiful red ocean of it. He would gladly drown in such a thing. He would glad spill it all to make it. To do such as thing was such a worthy endeavor.

There was a hollow thud, and suddenly he was dropping to the ground. He whirled around on his heels and found a another nord, this one also in steel armor, but with a shaved head. He lowered his raised hand and looked to him.

“You okay?”

He glared foully at the Nord.

“Hey, I just stepped in to help” The Nord said, raising his hands.

No Nord did that, they all were racist bastards and drunkards-

Then why did this one do it? To gain favor perhaps? To get into his pants? He frowned at the Nord, questioning his actions.

“You look like you needed help” The Nord shrugged.

...Did he stumble upon yet another out of the norm Nord like Gunnar? One that proved himself better than his other races? Or perhaps one that was not so much of a flaming asshole?

Bending over the unconscious man, he checked to see how bad the blow had been. Seeing as it had only knocked the drunkard out, the big Nord nodded and then walked back over to a table, likely where he had been sitting the whole time.

Cocking his head to the side… he wondered if-

No. He needed to head back, needed to report to Astrid. There was no time to chitchat, and even if he did, he could no speak. He needed to get on with his work… maybe he would come back to meet this man…

Firstly though… he needed to feed. It was obvious that he did not have the tolerance to resist, and a hungry vampire was more likely to go on a rampage in sheer blood lust then a full one. And to lose control while trying to assassinate people was not something he needed. As much as it pained him to do so… he needed to stop kidding himself.

There was no way to save his soul, he had lost it that day with the vampire. He was a monster and there was no way to get away from that. He just needed to stop clinging to that shred of hope that he could still be saved one day. Not to mention, why would he want to be saved? He was a killer, and he loved his job. He was a monster, and he loved being one. There was no salvation for him anyway.

Walking out of the tavern, he left the city with a much colder heart then he arrived with. And considering that his heart was rotten lump of flesh inside of his chest, that was something.

~*~

His first victim was a lone bandit along the road. He stalked her for almost an hour, gathering the courage to pounce. He just had to nonstop think about how the blood would taste on his tongue again, how it would run down his throat like liquid red silk. He just had to think that she was going to be killed by some good doer anyway, so he should get a chance to salvage something from her.

When she began humming a light ditty, he started forward, steps light and careful but quick and firm. He was going to drain this girl dry, of every drop. He just needed to get in close and latch onto that pretty throat. Drain her dry, kill her.

The girl fumbled on a patch of ice, quickly recovered, and then started walking again. Taking up her tune again. He stalked forward faster, wanting it like a drug gone dry in his veins. He needed it, he needed it bad. This was his food, he needed to eat, the pain of having gone so long without was painful. It hurt so badly he could hardly breath.

He could not take it anymore. He raced forward, reaching out and grabbing the girl by her arms and yanking her back. She let out a scream and he opened his mouth as wide as it would go, fangs fully extended, and then his mouth came down on the side of her exposed neck. His fangs easily found a vein and dug right in. And he felt blood hit the roof of his mouth. And just-

The taste of copper hit his tongue first, and then the sheer heat of it, and then the texture of it, the slight thickness to it as it ran down his throat. And suddenly… the pain was gone. And there was just a complete and utter bliss that clouded his senses. Like taking skooma, and just losing oneself to bliss. After so many years of not having it, to finally have-

His stomach suddenly curled, and he felt something twist that should not have and immediately pulled away. The girl fell to the ground as he stumbled away, stomach in knots. He looked over at the girl and immediately knew what was wrong.

If one goes without water for too long, you do not let them chug water unless you want them to get sick. If ones goes without eating too much for a long time, then making them eat a lot would also get them sick. It was the same damned case in this instance. He had gone without blood for too long and his body was rejecting such an amount. Not only that, but he could taste the faint sickness in the blood know that he could think straight. The girl had something foul in her system.

Hunching over, he tried his hardest to keep it down. He needed to keep it in his system, he needed to digest some of it-

His stomach contracted and he was vomiting all the blood he had just drunk. All of the work he put into hunting down his meal, only for it to end up a hideous pile of goo on the ground. Not only that, but not only did the pain return, he now felt sick.

Well… that did not go as planned. And here he thought he was ready to plunge into full monsterhood. Perhaps it was best that he just stuck to painfully avoiding it like before. Because being both painfully hungry and sick was not a pleasant sensation.

Stumbling over to the girl, he saw that she was clinging to life by threads. leaving like she was was likely to change her into the monster that he was. So, taking up one of his daggers, he walked over to the girl and carved out her bleeding throat. When she was dead, he made sure that he was, dragged the body over into the woods, and then started walking towards Falkreath and the Sanctuary.

He certain was in a mess.


	12. Rise, Young Listener

Muiri was not happy that Nilsine was still alive, but still happy that Alain was dead. She handed over six hundred gold coins for the contract. Which was less than the three contracts offered all together, but still a bit for a single contract. He would put it towards a stash of gold he was starting to get better weapons.

The Orich daggers and the Elven bow were nice, but nothing like the custom weapons he used to have, and certainly not weighty enough for his likes. If he heard right, what he wanted were Daedric weapons, and those costed a pretty coin because of the Daedra hearts used in the smithing process. So he needed to save up if he wanted both a set of daggers and a bow. And then probably a good amount of arrows. Which meant he needed more contracts.

He made it back to the Sanctuary and back to Astrid. The coy blonde was in the front room, bent over a marked up map laid across a table when he opened the door. He tapped her shoulder and leaned against the table to notify her of his return.

“Ah, you’re back. So, how went your first real contract? A bit more exciting than what Nazir’s been offering, I’d wager” She smirked.

He scribbled down ‘ _a job cleanly executed_ ’ on a note and showed her.

“Oh, very good. Very good indeed. You, my dear, are going to fit in here quite nicely…” Astrid purred before sombering up “Now, I need you assistance with a matter of a more… personal nature”

He cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. What could the woman possibly need his help with?

“It’s Cicero” She sighed, rubbing her temples “Ever since he arrived, his behavior’s been… Well, erratic would be an understatement. I do believe he is truly mad”

He cocked an eyebrow and gave her a smirk. She was just now realizing this? She chuckled and rolled her eyes. But then her expression turned… frightened? Scared? He did not know, she expertly covered it up and replaced it with firm resolve.

“But it’s worse than that. He’s taken to locking himself in the Night Mother’s chamber, and talking. To someone. In hushed, but frantic tones. Who is he speaking with? What are they planning? I fear treacher”

He scowled at her. Sure, Cicero was completely and utterly mad, but that did not warrant such a damning accusation as treachery. There had to be another reason. Cicero did say that he heard voices in his head, perhaps he was just knee deep in sheer insanity?

Astrid read the skepticism in his features.

“Maybe I am paranoid, but healthy paranoia has saved this Sanctuary before, and my gut’s telling me that demented little fool is up to something”

He sighed, folding his arms across his chest. What did she want him to do? Sure, Cicero seemed to like him, but he hardly knew the little man. And it was not like he could talk him down or anything.

“Dear brother, I need you to steal into that chamber, and eavesdrop on their meeting” Astrid cooed “It’ll be no use clinging to the shadows. They’ll see you for sure. No, you need a hiding place. Somewhere they’d never think to look… Like inside the Night Mother’s coffin”

He shook his head vigorously. There was no way he was going to press himself against anything stored inside of a fucking coffin. It was both disgusting and disrespectful. And sure, he killed people, he was a monster, but he had some scraps of a moral code left.

Astrid frowned at him, glared really. So he wrote down that it would be both disgusting and disrespectful. The glare did not lessen.

“Be that as it may, we have no other choice. You need to remain unseen! Now go! Before they meet. And report back to me with whatever you learn” She hissed.

Scowling at the woman, he silent started running towards the chamber. It was not hard figuring which one it was. It was the one with the eerie painted glass window and the heavy iron door. It seemed that this Night Mother was a very important person to warrant such things, and even more so to deserve such a person as Cicero watching over her like a mad dog.

Slipping past the iron door, he carefully slipped it shut. While running, he had not noted Cicero’s presence and could only guess that Cicero was with Babette in the back rooms of the Sanctuary. That meant that any noise he made would echo back there and give him away.

Taking in the room, he noted the coffin was before the glass window, giving it an eerie and a dark presence from the red and black light that seemed through the grotesque design. The banners carrying the black hand did not help in the slightest, nor the stench of rot as he approached the coffin.

Being undead himself, and having spent a great deal in the ground, he thought he would have no problem with pressing up against a corpse… but whatever corpse was inside that coffin had been dead for a good long time judging by the smell. Not even the heavy stench of fancy oils and flowers could help the sickly sweet and musty stench from simply being overpowering.

Sighing, he formed his resolve for Cicero’s sake. He would prove that Cicero was simply mad and speaking with himself. Or at worst, was talking at a corpse to sooth some part of his bent soul. And then he could go back to getting contracts and weapons and maybe going back and talking to that Nord who helped him because it was fucking bothering him that a Nord came to his rescue with nothing to get from it.

Tugging on the sides of the coffin, he found it was locked. Breaking out the old picks, he managed to crack it open after a moment. And inside was… a really dried up and rotting corpse of a woman. He scowled and just stood there for a moment, trying to harden his resolve to get in.

...No, there was no way he was going to. He would hide in the room somewhere. He would talk to Cicero. But there was no way he was going to press himself up against a corpse for a hollow accusation such as-

He heard a merry humming coming towards the room and immediately recognized Cicero’s voice. Panicked, his brain propelled his legs forward into the coffin and shut it behind him. Inside, his muscles were tensed up and his hands were on his daggers. He did not want to find out what happened to those that cracked open the Night Mother’s coffin.

He heard the door open and Cicero’s merry voice filling the room as the door was closed again. He heard the little man moving around the room, likely checking to make sure that no one was in there. Thankfully, he did not really need to breath, because it took Cicero a good five minutes until he was satisfied with the search.

“Are we alone?” He heard Cicero say “Yes… yes… alone. Sweet solitude. No one will hear us, disturb us. Everything is going according to plan. The others… I’ve spoken to the. And they’re coming around, I know it. The wizard, Festus Krex… perhaps even the Argonian, and the un-child...perhaps even pretty eyed Anton”

He did not like that Cicero’s voice had changed so much. What happened to the sing song, high pitched voice? What man was in the room to have such a deadly, deep voice?

“What about you?” He tensed up “Have… have you spoke to anyone? No… No, of course not. I do the talking, the stalking, the seeing and the saying! And what do you do you do!? NOTHING!”

There was a moment of silence before Cicero’s merry voice returned. He could almost hear the forced smile in it.

“Not… not that I’m angry! No, never! Cicero understands. Heh. Cicero always understands! And obeys! You will talk when you’re ready, won’t you? Won’t you… sweet Night Mother”

“Poor Cicero”

He jumped, hitting the back of the coffin lid. That voice… who said that?!

“Dear Cicero”

Eyes snapping wide, he stared in horror at the corpse inside the coffin with him. No… it could not be…

“Such a humble servant” The old crone’s voice “But he will never hear my voice. For he is not the Listener”

“Oh, but how can I defend you? How can I exert your will? If you will not speak? To anyone!” Cicero sighed outside, apparently not bothered by the sound within the coffin.

“Oh, but I will speak. I will speak to you. For you are the one…”

He shook his head vigorously. This was not happening. A corpse was not speaking with him. Sure, he was a walking and talking corpse himself, but this… this was not real.

“Yes, you. You, who shares my iron tomb, who warms my ancient bones. I give you this task… journey to Volunruud. Speak with Amaund Motierre”

“Poor Cicero has failed you. Poor Cicero is sorry, sweet mother. He’s tried, so very hard. But he just can’t find the Listener!”

“Tell Cicero the time has come. Tell him the words he had been waiting for, all these years: “Darkness rises when silence dies”,”

NO!

Pushing back, the lid of the coffin opened and he fell out and on his ass. He scrambled away from the fucking talking corpse. Away from all this insanity! In his wild attempt to get away, he forgot that Cicero was in the room still, and found out the hard way, as he bumped into the jester. Said jester grabbed him, toted him over to the wall and slammed him there, hands on his throat.

He saw wild rage in the man’s eyes.

“What treachery! Defiler! Debaser and defiler! You have violated the sanctity of the Night Mother’s coffin! Explain yourself!” Cicero shrilly cried “Speak worm!”

Through wildly flailing arms and hands, he tried to convey that the Night Mother had spoken to him. However, Cicero seemed too enraged to try and play that game with him, because one of the hands left his throat to grab one of the Orcish daggers on his own belt and press it against his belly.

“I SHOULD GUT YOU” Cicero screamed.

A hand grabbed the charcoal on his belt, and he pulled his knees up and launched them forward into Cicero’s gut. Not expecting such a cheap blow, the jester fell to the ground and he immediately turned to the wall he had been pressed against, scribbling faster than he had ever done in his life.

When Cicero got to his feet, clutching his gut, he glared at him until he pointed out what he had written on the wall. And then the jester’s face went blank as he took in the words.

_Darkness rises when silence dies_

For several long moments… there was nothing but Cicero staring at those words. He stood straighter, arms dropping to his sides. His thin lips parted as he took those words in, eyes opening wider than before.

“She…” He started quietly, softly “She said that? She said those words… to you? Darkness rises when silence dies? But… but those are the words. The Binding Words. Written in the Keeping Tomes. The signal so Cicero would know… Mother’s only way of talking to sweet Cicero…”

Cicero stared at him for a long time, looking more sane then he had seen the little man. And then the man broke out into the most joyous and simply…. ecstatic expression he have ever seen in any living and unliving creature. And before he could react, the jester lunged forward and grabbed him, swinging him around as he practically sang

“Then it is true! She is back! Our Lady is back! She has chosen a Listener! She has chosen you! Hahaha! All hail the Listener!”

Well… this was better than the homicidal rage a moment ago… and he seemed genuinely happy. Perhaps it was best that it happened this way… though he wished the jester would let him go already. The lovely aroma coming off the jester’s neck was almost enough to tempt him to eat past his stomach ache.


	13. Open Up Now

He heard a door violently swing open. Cicero stopped his spinning to look at the door, leaving him staring at the Night Mother’s coffin and that gods awful, talking corpse. She almost looked like she was smiling, or perhaps that was only due to a lack of lips.

“By Sithis, this ends now! Back away, fool! Whatever you’ve been planning is over!” He heard Astrid bark.

He wiggled out of Cicero’s grip, only to be yanked away by Astrid.

“Are you alright? I heard the commotion. Who was Cicero talking to? Where’s the accomplice? Reveal yourself, traitor!” The last part was aimed at the room.

“Cicero only spoke to the Night Mother! Cicero spoke to the Night Mother, but she didn’t speak to him. Oh no. She spoke only to him! To the Listener!”

He said Listener like the way the way he said Night Mother. Like it was the sweetest word he knew, like it meant the world to him, like it meant life or death to him. He was both hesitantly flattered and exceptionally disturbed by it.

“What? The Listener? What are you going on about? What is this lunacy?” Astrid sneered, eyes lowered in skepticism.

“It’s true, it’s true! The Night Mother has spoken! The silence has broken! The Listener has been chosen!” Cicero sang, twirling around the room.

Ignoring him, Astrid turned from the mad little man to him.

“When I heard Cicero screaming, I knew you’d been discovered. I feared the worst. Are you alright?” She asked.

He nodded his head stiffly. As good as he could have been having an ancient corpse talking to him. That and finding out that he was whatever this Listener was. No, he really was not. But he would live, if somewhat mentally scarred for life.

“Then what in Sithis’ name is going on? Cicero spoke to the Night Mother, but she spoke to you? Is this just more of the fool’s rambling?” Astrid said, moving them out of the room.

With shaking hands, he took out his notebook

_It’s apparently true. The Night Mother spoke to me. She said I was “the one”._

“So Cicero wasn’t talking to anyone else? Just… the Night Mother’s body? And the Night Mother, who, according to everything we know, will only speak to the person chosen as Listener… just spoke. Right now… to you?”

He nodded once.

“By Sithis” Astrid gasped “W-what did she say?”

He wrote down what she said, including the man’s full name and location.

“Amaund Motierre? I have no idea who that is. But Volunruud… that I have heard of. And I know where it is”

_Should I go? It sounds like a contract_

“Hmm...No, No! Listen, I don’t know what’s going on here, but you take your orders from me. Are we clear on that? The Night Mother may have spoken to you, but I am still the leader of this Family. I will not have my authority so easily dismissed”

She shook her head, glaring daggers at Cicero as he merrily danced around the room, humming tunes to himself. It seemed that there was nothing that could spoil the jolly jester’s mood. Then again, to talk to a corpse unend with hopes that it would talk back. That could drive anyone as mad as Cicero was. Perhaps more so.

“I...I need time to think about all this. Go see Nazir- do some work for him. I’ll find you when I’m ready to discuss the matter further” She sighed, rubbing her temples before storming out of the room.

That left him alone with Cicero. And he was not sure if he wanted that. He did not realize how deeply Cicero’s mind was saturated in madness, how completely and utterly crazy he was. Yet… he was not too bothered by that. He wondered why?

He shook his head.

Monsters but in different forms. A wolf wearing sheep’s skin, one black and the other huge and bloodstained. Cicero, a killer dressed up in a fool’s clothing. Him, a monster dressed up as a weak little elf. Or perhaps pity? Did he pity the little man, having lost so much for this, Night Mother that he would worship her so?

He left the room to Cicero’s sung praises of ‘Hail the Listener’ and went to find Nazir. Maybe some work would get his mind off things…

~*~

He spent a few weeks, taking contracts with leisure and then adventuring into the wilds of Skyrim, scooping out where potential kills would be and sometimes listening for the gentle whispers of the Black Sacrament because without those whispers, he was sure that he would run out of work.

Astrid took the Night Mother’s spoken words hard and was not sure what to do. Sometimes he would hear her mumbling about treachery, and others about setting up the contract. Sometimes she would glare and hiss at Cicero like he was an unwanted dog, and others she would coo sugary words. It seemed that she was torn between power and tradition.

Whatever the cause, he was often forced to hunt out work himself or turn to Nazir.

When he was not hunting down work and he was out adventuring, he visited his friend in Windhelm.

The Nord revealed his name to be Stenvar, and he was not like the bigoted drunkards in the cold city. He was a well versed adventurer who had recently started to hire out his sword for gold, planning to save up for an adventure to Cyrodiil and perhaps the Summerset Isles. Definitely somewhere warmer than Skyrim.

Stenvar proved a bit slow, a bit stubborn, and a little greedy by the way he told of fortunes and treasures. However, he was also kind, knowledgeable, a good swordsman, and further more, open to work with elves, beast races and other human races, unlike the other Nords. And thus, he found himself often straying to Windhelm whenever he headed into the cold northeast part of skyrim.

He often listened for hours of the adventures that Stenvar told. And he found himself calling the Nord friend in his mind, and on paper, and he heard the Nord calling him friend as well. And he just… found it strange. The only other Nord he considered friend was that lovable bastard Gunnar, and it was strange to find another actually enjoyable Nord among the vile mass.

He wondered if he would hire Stenvar, it would be helping his friend achieve his dream and it would certainly let him try and raid one of the many Nord burial grounds for the treasures buried there. Having more coin would certainly help him in getting the bow and daggers that he wanted, as Daedric weapons were proving to be both hard to come by, and someone willing to make them for him. As it appeared, most of the Nord smiths did not want such excellent weapons in the hands of an elf.

And the shear thinning of work was making the idea more and more appealing.

He decided that he would go out adventuring, at least until Astrid finally decided what in the name of Sithis she was doing. He just wanted to finish off one last contract that Gabriella managed to find. A bloke over in Windhelm none the less. And the pretty Dunmer wanted him along for the contract as well.

“Now… this contract is a touch specific on how he wants the target killed” Gabriella said as they embarked “It seems that this miffed lover of this...Sindri… was a bit more miffed then the usual scorned lover when Sindri left them. They want us to… torture him, break his bum leg, tear off his ge-”

He shook his hands at her, getting the point.

“Yes. It’s been awhile since we’ve got such a specific contract, so we can’t mess this up” She smiled “Alright?”

He nodded in confirmation.

He was not… comfortable with torture. It was just so messy, so personal, so unprofessional in the life of an assassin. However, if the contract called for torture, then he would need to do so. Quickly as possible, quietly, and then he could go adventuring with Stenvar with the cash.

Upon reaching Windhelm, they skulked through the shadows of the night as they cloaked the city. They found the contact hiding among the shadows of an abandoned house. An androgynous voice told them that Sindri liked drinking himself silly in the tavern into the wee hours of the morning before begging in the market square. He wanted the contract done with before the sun rose.

Handing over a whopping two thousand coins, the contact left, leaving them to get the job done.

Heading over to the tavern, upon seeing two people outside, he yanked Gabriella back and motioned for her to remain quiet.

“So, you have me outside old man, what do you want?” A slurred voice asked briskly.

Peering through the darkness, he saw the second figure unsheath an impressive greatsword.

“I’m want to gut you like the fucking worthless living being you are”

… Was that Gunnar?

She noticed that he was cocking his head to the side.

“Do you know one of them?”

He nodded solemnly. There was no way that he could tell Gunnar that he was an assassin, much less that he was going to torture and kill the man for profit.

“Oh dear, we have to intervene” Gabriella sighed “And that sword looks like it could cut through us”

Nodding, he rushed forward, using skill and sheer speed over the weapon’s weight. He came in low, tackling the target enough out of the way that Gabriella could come up right behind him and stand in the way, smiling prettily.

“Good evening, sir” She said in her most sultry voice “But we shall have to intervene your spilling of this man’s blood and guts on the ground”

“Why?” Gunnar snapped, the scars alongside his face a deep red color. He could see small veins pulsing along the surface.

“Because the Dark Brotherhood want to do it” She bluntly said as he kicked out Sindri’s knees and knocked him to the ground.

“Dark… the assassin’s guild?” Gunnar asked.

“Yes, and we’ve been paid a great deal to do it, so we shall have to take him from here” Gabriella said as he wrapped a cloth around Sindri’s mouth, keeping him quiet.

“...I see...will it be painful?” Gunnar asked.

“Very” Gabriella purred.

“...Well… I don’t fancy having assassin’s after me, so I don’t want to kill you two to get to him… and I’m sure that he’d be dead either way…” Gunnar said, color draining from his scar “...So, take him”

“Thank you, and good evening” She smiled as he started to drag him towards the dock doors.

He looked and saw Gunnar watching them, looking torn. Such a good man had to be, between whatever anger was inside of himself and moral codes, the man had to be in a bit of pain. But then Gunnar looked like he was remembering something important and walked back into the tavern.

~*~

He wondered what the poor bastard had done to earn the hatred of such a happy man. Probably something about that warrior’s guild that Gunnar had mentioned that one time. The old warrior did say that he was pining after someone, so perhaps Sindri had hurt them before?

“A bastard like you, it’s a wonder that these contracts don’t come sooner” Gabriella smiled wickedly as they walked “We saved that big, good looking fella some time”

“MMmph!”

“Say, Anton, did you try to tell me that you knew that guy?”

He nodded his head, and was going to reach for his notebook when Sindri thrashed hard. He motioned for her to take the man, which she did just so that she could dig her sharp nails into his shoulders. And while the man howled beyond the rag, he dug out his notebook and scribbled down the note before showing it to her.

“With you at Helgen? You’ll have to tell me that one while we drag this pig out to a nice quiet place to fulfill the contract”

He bobbed his head again, tucking his notebook away before taking up the burden of dragging Sindri again.


	14. On the Road again

"I am so sorry Anton, I forgot that you were... not like Babette" Gabriella said.

If his fangs were not out as far as they could go, as well as what he thought were a secondary and tertiary set of fangs, or perhaps all his teeth set to fine points to seek blood, he would have... fuck, he did not have a voice to scream at her. Dammit. Well, if his hands were not frozen into talons, then he would have written a really nasty note in all capital letters.

"I didn't think that he would have that much blood in him. For a stringy Nord, he was rather juicy"

He glared at her.

NOT HELPING

"Sorry, sorry. But I would have thought that you were starving yourself for more moral reasons then a complete inability to hold it down. I know Babette abstains occasionally so that she does not have to poison her targets so often"

He looked over at the desicrated remains of Sindri, and all the blood...

He needed out. He needed out now. Now, now, now, now, now!

He stumbled out of the abandoned shack that they had done the dark deed, taking in the fresh air like the blood he wanted to drown in. The bitter coldness cooled the blood on his frontside, his hands, his chest, his mouth, his legs and shoes, helped make it less appealing than it already was.

Dammit, they started carving into the bastard and the blood had been so tempting that he could help but help himself to it. And of course, as starving as he was, he started drinking too fast and had gotten sick and vomited out. Hungrier than before, he had tried again only to be sick again, not only that, but there was sickness in the man's blood. His liver was failing and he could taste the contaminants in the blood. Now the pain of hunger was enough to knock the air from his lungs.

Coughing again, he fell to the snow, staining it with red as still cooling blood dripped off of him.

"Do you need a moment?"

Gasping for the air that he did not need, he struggled to gain control of himself again. To not tear in Gabriella or go back into the shack to drain the last bit from that corpse. He needed to gain control of himself again. He did not want to be that monster again... he did not want to be that monster that killed sloppily, messily, vicious and without thought. Dammit…

Breathing harshly, he stumbled over to the river that ran by the shack as Gabriella lit the only reminder of their work. The smell of ash, fire and burning flesh helped dull the edge of his hunger, helped in the fight for control. Slightly...slightly...the slight push helped him start making the baby steps. Baby steps away from the beast of his hunger.

Inhaling the foul scents for a moment… he felt the pain lessen, his fangs slip back into his gums centimeter by centimeter, felt his stomach settle. And little by little, he caged that monster again, shoving it back to the back of his mind and chaining it in rusty chains of self control. The creature growled in frustration as it was so easily caged again after tasting freedom.

And with the monster inside of him caged once again, he got up to find a means to clean himself off.

~*~

The Candlehearth was busier than usual when he finally showed up in his old set of armor. A lot of Nords and others were inside, merrily drinking as the sun started to rise. He squeezed through the throng and made his way over to Stenvar’s table, where the bald Nord was sitting. Stenvar was enjoying a glass of mead when he took a seat.

The sheer amount of people bore the heavy scent of blood in the air, more so than the smell of honey and mint of mead. However, he ignored it, tried his hardest anyway. He focused on the foul smells, the smell of alcohol, the smell of sweat, body odor, stench of sex, stench of leather and steel. It helped a great deal, turned hunger into disgust.

“Anton, nice to see ya again” Stenvar grinned.

He smiled at the Nord, grinning really, as he got his notebook out and his charcoal. Scratching down a note, he handed it over to the warrior. Cocking an eyebrow, Stenvar looked the note over as he took a drink, peering past the fanciness of his scrawl.

“You… want to hire my sword?”

He nodded.

“To raid a set of Dwarven ruins?”

He nodded again, less eager. He did not think that Stenvar would be so hesitant about it. Perhaps he was hoping that the Nord would continue proving himself worth more than his fellow, bigoted, no good-

“Sure, been awhile since anyone hired me, been looking forward to the adventure” Stenvar grinned “Got my fee?”

He dug into his coin purse, pulling out the necessary coins and dumping them onto the table. Stenvar looked at the amount, nodded his head, tanked the last of his mead, and then scooped up the coins before slipping them into his own purse.

“Alright, we’ll move out whenever you want, Boss” Stenvar smiled.

...Well, that was a new one. He had never been called Boss… he liked it, perhaps more than he should have. But, he was technically in charge of the Nord, having been the one to hire him. And it was nice it to be acknowledged as such. Not that he wanted to be boss of his friend, more of, have some sort of power that he could actually yield without inciting a blood bath and or a riot.

He nodded and jerked his head to the side, wanting out of the stench of the tavern. His friend nodded, saying that he wanted to get a few things and asked him to wait for him. Writing down that he would wait with the bartender downstairs. And with the plan set, he wandered downstairs to let Stenvar pack.

~*~

When Anton disappeared down the steps, he got up to to head down to the rent room that he kept, when on of the drunk patrons wondered over and stood in his way, reeking of far too much mead. He could see the burst blood vessels in the man’s eyes.

“Whazzz with you and de elf?”

“He’s hired me to help him rain a few ruins” He said bluntly, wanting the drunk out of his face.

“Ooooh… yerr gonna screw em, right? Tiuught, ‘mall little arse like that?”

Disgusted, he shoved the drunk as hard as he could, knocking him into another group of drunkards. This prompted angry, slurred shouting and then an all out fist fight to occur. And upon realizing that this would be a pristine opportunity to get away, promptly adjusted the sheath on his back and walked down the stairs, hooked a sharp turn into his rented room, gathered his things in a bag, and made out like a thief with Anton as the barfight evolved upstairs.

Anton gave him strange looks with those strange orange eyes, eyes like dying suns. But he just flashed the cute little elf a smile as he hurried them out of the city before the drunk remembered that it was him that started it all.

~*~

He found himself rather enjoying the presence of someone else. When he was not actively trying to focus on the smell of the Nord’s blood, he found a source of noise very comforting. Being so silent all the time had a way of messing with one’s mind in subtle, but deeply resonating levels. So to have someone that breathed loudly, that walked on sticks and snow with loud crisp crunches, that someone that hummed and mumbled every so often was both refreshing and comforting.

And it was nice to just play the role of rogue rather than assassin. He was not the blade in the shadows, looking for the precise moment that his opponent turned a blind eye to him to make a stealthy deathblow. He was simply a light and quick damage dealer, coming in close to attack with his daggers or hanging back to shoot arrows.

And when the road got quiet, Stenvar often started talking. Regaling tales of his past adventures and telling of the ones that he would have when he went past Skyrim and into warmer lands. Stenvar often went on about how he liked fighting magic users, finding them more worthy fights then other warriors.

“You can fight a warrior, and more often than naught, the winner is just the bigger guy” Stenvar said “However, fight a mage and you have to fight all the spells they have. Fighting a mage requires skills, because it requires more than out muscling them. Because if you try to out muscle a mage and you’re going to end up dead”

He nodded.

“You have to fight fire, lightning, ice, atronachs, summoned beasts and spirits, healing spells, warding spells, spells that can turn a mage’s flesh to bone hardness” Stenvar said “Overcoming all of that makes you a damned good warrior. And don’t get me started on fighting rogues like you. Strength means nothing to the creature that can duck and then slice up his kneecaps”

He smiled. It was not everyday a warrior admitted that the mage and rogue classes were worthy opponents. Most often than naught, all he heard were warriors complaining that mages were squishy but annoying, and rogues cowardly and weak, and thus, not worthy to fight. He did not know if Stenvar was actually trying to get into his good graces, but whatever he was doing, it certainly was working.

“Though, working with mages would probably be an even worthier challenge then fighting them. Hard working with someone with completely different tactics, or who could do as much area damage as they can do and a warrior has to get up close and personal. You know, I always did kinda want to be a spellsword, but never had the patience to perfect those spells. Probably end up blowing off what little hair I have left on my head… might look okay with no hair, but no eyebrows?”

He smiled and dryly chuckled. Stenvar was… amusing, almost Gunnar but in a more muted way. In a more warm and friendly way, rather than Gunnar’s loud and childish but still endearing way. More clever the sheer crass. And it was nice. It was nice simply being around another creature with trying to kill it, either through assassinations or feeding. It was… nice to have a friend.

“Anyway, it looks like you use daggers. So, I go in as a distract and you go and slice them up when they’re not looking? I haven’t worked with a lot of rogues, mostly just guarding nobles and travelers. Worked with a mage once, but mostly clearing out a dungeon for them rather than working with them” Stenvar went on “Not as much fun working for a person as opposed to working with them”

Boy, was that not true.

“So, what drove you to raid Dwarven ruins? Not many willing to try and work with those traps, machines and other dangerous critters” Stenvar asked.

He took out his notebook, scribbled down a picture of a coin and showed him, to which Stenvar laughed.

“That’s a good of a answer as any. Though not many are willing to risk certain death for it” Stenvar pointed out.

He scribbled down that he wanted Daedric weapons, however, they were proving elusive for both lack of materials and because no one wanted an elf carrying such weapons. Stenvar grimmly nodded as he tucked his notebook away.

“Sad tale. Weapons should go to hands that will care for and use them, not to some dumbass that’ll use them as blunt tools of death and then come whining back to the blacksmith after the edges have dulled, and cracks forming in blunt surfaces” Stenvar sighed “If you ever need help with that, let me know. If nothing else, I can buy anything for you”

This man really was a good man, a good friend. And he wondered how he managed to find this man out of the vile mass of Nords. Though if Stenvar ever betrayed him, he would probably flay the man alive. He had gone on long enough living with misery and loneliness. He did not think that he could take having something that painful done to him.

He supposed he just needed to keep his darker side away from his friend, and perhaps all would go well.


	15. Adventure!

They would be hitting the ruins Mzulft and Kagrenzel, as he planned ahead to remain close to Windhelm. If not much could be looted from the ruins, then they would move more south, towards Riften, if the need was that great. But he had already scooped out these ruins and knew at least a little of what would be expected.

Mzulft was home to some College of Winterhold activity, so he was making a sweeping assumption that they had at least cleared out some of the enemies and had not extensively looted the area. If nothing else, they could take what the mages had not and then head over to Kagrenzel. However, he was rather confident that the mages has not taken all the valuables. Dwarven ruins were tricky that way, always some secret locked treasure room that someone always missed. Rooms filled with valuable Dwarven metals, gems and weapons. Perhaps he would find a good bow and set of daggers?

If Mzulft turned out to be a bust, then he had Kagrenzel. He knew those ruins were more than likely untouched because of the death drop that lead inside. There were several sneakier ways to get in, but only if someone had good jumping legs or the ability to fly. And as he was sure that only highly trained, springy rogues could make the jump and dragons were not looting ruins, he was sure that untold treasures laid there.

He conveyed this through notes with Stenvar, as he did not want not only his friend but the man watching his back to be in the dark. Stenvar agreed, but suggested that they head to Kagrenzel first. His reasoning was that not only would it be easier with the roads they were taking, but also because it seemed to likelier to have treasure.

"I've heard of whispers of troubles with the mages. Some High Elf is causing some trouble up that way" Stencar said "So best to save anything to deal with the Mage College till last, in case we need to avoid it all together"

High Elf? He could not help but think about the overly intoxicated Altmer that was with the group in the wagon. Most Altmer he had ever encountered were always snotty and stuck up. But the elf... Bruniik-Kah. He had been loud, crass, rude, used slurs towards everyone, and demonstrated a master level of experience and skill in magic. Perhaps he was wrong though, because even if Bruniik was a troublesome thing, just because the word trouble and High Elf arose, did not mean that it was him.

But still, Stenvar had a point, and agreed with him. But teasingly joked that if anything happened because they went to Kagrenzel first, that it was on his big, bald head.

"I'll take it then, boss" Stenvar laughed.

He still could not get over actually having some power without having to take it by force. And he still could not believe that it was over a Nord of everything. But at least he would not abuse it, certainly not like other Nords. He would be kind, certainly not to his friend. He did not even think there would be a need to exert power. Perhaps when it came to dividing treasure with Stenvar, but other then that, he would be the boss in only name.

Walking along the road, he was surprised to meet a familiar raven haired girl, but with a large, blonde haired Nord companion.

"Hello, Anton" She said with a slight smile.

He nodded towards her in greeting.

"Doing well I see, not many can afford a good sell sword like Stenvar" Rayvahn smiled coyly.

"Nice seeing you again too, girly" Stenvar chuckled.

"I assume then that you're going to get up to no good in some ruins of sorts?" She smirked.

He nodded, scratching down the ruins that they were going to. Looking over the note, she nodded.

"You might want to give Mzulft for a bit" She said "You remember that High Elf with us? With Gunnar?"

He noted that she carefully avoided mentioning Helgen. Perhaps to avoid altering her friend to almost being executed by Imperials. She was tried as a criminal worthy of death, just for stumbling into that jumbled mess of fuckery. Along with Gunnar, Od-Kaaz, Bruniik, and himself.

He nodded.

"Well, he went over to the Mages' College and has been stirring up trouble there, and I've heard that he went searching for the Staff of Magnus"

He cocked his head to the side, wanting more of an explanation.

"Magnus, as far as I know, is a god of magic and is mainly worshipped by Altmer. And if the mages are involved, along with that drunken lout, I can assure you, you do not want to be there with him"

He nodded, not telling her that he had already decided to give the ruins some leeway to give it time for Bruniik to leave.

"Well, believe it or not, I managed to get accepted to the Companions, and I'm doing a job for that, so I better get to it" Rayvahn said "Good luck you two, you're going to need it"

He gave the girl a smile as the two groups went their different ways.

As they walked away, Stenvar spoke up.

"How do you know the Thane of Markarth?" He asked.

Well... she did not mention Helgen. And he did not want to lie to his friend, so after mulling it over, he took out his notebooks and scratched down that they had met up after first coming to Skyrim, stumbling onto a mess of soldiers and dealing with that mess.

"Oh. So you met that elf, what's his name? And...Gunnar... I know that name...I think he's making a name for himself in the Companions" Stenvar said “Were there others?”

_Just a big Khajiit named Od-Kaaz._

“Big Khajiit? How big?”

He made several motions that Stenvar did not quite understand, so he ushered the Nord over to a tree. Once over there, he shimmed up it enough that he was about a head and a half taller than Stenvar, and then made a motion for it there.

“Gods, that’s a big cat” Stenvar shuddered “Would not want to meet that creature in real life”

He nodded grimly. Od was a terrifying creature, both in sheer size, looks and apparent strength. To have seen the creature up close was bad enough, he did not want to think about the kind of trouble that one would get in being on the wrong end of his temper. Surely death, because there seemed little other choice in the matter.

He attempted to shimmy down the tree, when two large hands grabbed his waist and yanked him off. Lacking a throat to cry out indignantly, he wriggled as best he could in the Nord’s grip as he was turned and twisted around.

To think, that he trusted this man to the point that he would-!

He was seated on the warrior’s shoulders, Stenvar taking off down the road humming merrily. It took him several seconds to realize that he was getting carted around like a child, and then only half a second to smack the big Nord upside the head with the palm of his hand.

“Hey, hey, hey” Stenvar chuckled, rubbing the red hand mark on his bald head “Just trying to be nice”

As much as he wanted to be mad at the warrior, the big strong Nord deciding that the little elf needed a lift to get there, he realized… that Stenvar actually meant it in a genuinely kind way. Or at least, made it deeply seem like it. Not that he needed the lift, but it was nice for the warrior to think about him.

He pouted and tried to enjoy to fake feeling of being so tall as Stenvar walked on by.

~*~

Kagrenzel’s entrance was a large series of Dwarven ruins that were blasted with snow storms after snow storms from being so far East. He was careful to keep himself wrapped up in his cloak to avoid being blasted by the snow. The winds almost swept him off his feet a few times, but he was lucky to have Stenvar with him. The big Nord kept a heavy hand on his shoulder and grabbed him whenever the wind started to take him away.

They ducked inside the doors and slammed them shut, himself grateful to have the wind off of him. Though that quickly changed when he saw that the only thing in the room was a strange pedestal with an even stranger orb of light in the middle of it. He thought for a moment that perhaps it was the wrong location, and went to the pedestal to check the bodies of the dead bandits laying around it.

Mostly nothing, a few coins and one decent poison. A ring that he slipped onto his finger. But other then that, even after scouring around the room over and over again, he could not find anything like he had heard about. And he was sorely tempted to tempt fate and head over to the other ruins.

“What about the orb?” Stenvar asked after he made motions towards the door.

He shrugged. He had no idea what it was.

“Let’s check it out” Stenvar said, stepping towards it.

Sighing, he followed the Nord over to the pedestal. The ball of light floated there as they stepped closer, seemingly innocent in the dark room. Stenvar looked at it closely, turning his head this way and that. When he reached out to touch it, the ball of light slipped between his fingers and fell through the pedestal, vanishing for a moment before reappearing out away from them. The Nord took a step towards it, getting only that, before a wall slide out of the wall and slammed upwards against the ceiling.

Spinning on his heels, he looked around for a way out and was horrified to see otherwise. He was trapped...just like he was in that cave…

Snarling, he turned on Stenvar, who was eyeing the now moving ball of light. It circled around the cage a few times, like it was observing them or something. It reminded him too much of how he stalked victims.

The ball of light phazed through one of the metal gates, hovering over the pedestal, before slamming down, taking the pedestal into the ground with it. There were several rather loud and ominous crashing sounds, in which he took out his daggers and Stenvar unsheathed his sword. Though they found out a moment later that was seemingly useless.

The floor jerked, and the parted, dropping them down a seemingly endless hole in the ground.

As his feet started slicing through air, he lamented not having a throat to scream, because he wanted too. Being short and all, and being buried in the ground for all those years, he did not want to admit that he had a slight fear of heights. And not seeing a ground to hit and feeling his body go straight to weightless as it fell, the part of his mind that felt fear went into straight overdrive and he felt sheer terror.

Cold sweat form on his skin and was quickly taken away by the wind that whipped around him. Tears were stripped right from his eyes from the air zipping past him. His arms and legs tried to flail in a natural attempt to slow himself, only for the sheer force of falling to keep them behind him as he fell face first towards the abyss. And he had no throat to voice his terror. Nothing but the tears streaming along his face and the droplets of cold sweat coming off his body.

And he was going to die-

A strong hand gripped his arm, pulling him to the side. He looked and saw Stenvar, face contorted in sheer effort as the Nord pulled him towards him. Once the warrior got him close enough, he was jerked closer as the Nord corrected himself in midair, feet falling towards the abyss. The big Nord’s arms wrapped around him and the Nord gave him a cheeky wind gusted smile.

What was he-?

Water crashed around him and they were sinking. In a panic he opened his mouth and sucked in water. It filled his lungs as they fell deeper and deeper.


	16. Little Elf, Pretty Elf

He had never really been fond of swimming. Before he had become undead and before he became a thief, he was far too scrawny to really swim well. When he was a thief, he had grudgingly swam when necessary for extra sneaking and to hide from law enforcement. When he was the undead he had no need, especially when the likelihood of him drowning was cut down with his undead status. And thus, he could probably count the number of times he had ever swam for survival or enjoyment on his fingers and toes.

Swimming because he had fallen into water from a near impossible drop was new, and having gone so long without having swam, he flailed pathetically for the first few moments. When he finally managed to make his muscles remember what to do, he looked desperately around Stenvar, having lost him in when they impacted despite the big Nord's feet taking the brunt of the impact. His undead eyes pierced through the murky waters with ease, but even then, all he saw were rocks.

He swam deeper, thinking that Stenvar's larger body and full steel armor had done him in. But even reaching the bottom of the water, he saw nothing. He swam around and around, hunting in every nook and cranny of those rocks. He could not find his friend.

He wondered why he felt such a pang of sheer pain in his chest as the chances of finding Stenvar became slimmer and slimmer. Stenvar was just a Nord, a nice Nord sure, but a Nord none the less. A Nord that recognized the merits of the Rogue and Mage classes and saw that each person for his or her merits rather than if their ears were point or their skin a different color. And... to lose someone that he was already investing trust into. A friend... like the ones that he had lost to that damned vampire.

He dove down to the deepest depths, searching one last time. He swam down to crack in the rocks and happened to see a dark object drifting from it. He peered closer and saw an iron gauntlet and a large worn hand. He zipped down and grasped it, yanking and yanking until he pulled the rest of the body with it. And-Stenvar!

It took effort, sheer and total effort. He kicked and flail and and thrashed, trying to swim Stenvar's body to the surface. But the damned Nord was just too big and his armor was not helping in the slightest. He was far too weak from having not fed properly in so long, and he was not built for such things...

He saw something red in the water and saw that there was a jagged cut across the bulging forearm of the big Nord's arm.

...Did he dare?

~*~

Coughing, Stenvar took in his first shaking breath. His eyes clenched as he felt a migraine form along his temples. He kept coughing up water, slender fingers on his throat, encouraging him to continue to force water out of his body. When he could not force water out, a small mouth on his pushed air into his lungs, helping him force water out. And after several moments of this, he felt like he had finally got the water out of his body.

Wheezing, he cracked open his eyes, vision blurring for several second before he saw the water drenched face of Anton hovering over him. The cute little elf's dying embers colored eyes were filled with concerned, loose red strands of hair from his disheveled Mohawke sticking to his high cheekbones. And... did his mouth seem a little red? Perhaps it was just the eyes and the hairs...

"An...Anton?" He wheezed.

The little elf nodded, reminding him that Anton was mute. The fall seemed to had scrambled his brain.

"Go-good to see we made it" He chuckled through wheezes "G-guess it's m-my fault we fell?"

Anton scowled, though playfully, finger brushed strands of red out of his face.

He chuckled until it was interrupted by a coughing fit. Anton grew concerned, slender fingers touching his forehead as he tried to calm his throat.

"F-ffine" He managed.

Anton scowled, not believing him. He disappeared for a moment, and he heard scurrying about of Anton's light footsteps as he did... whatever. He was more focused on the fact that they had lived and that he could hardly breath. He had almost managed to calm his throat when he felt something warm by his side. Looking, he saw that Anton had taken some kindling and had set fire to some dry twigs. He did not know how, other then the elf was a sneaky little guy, but felt just slightly better that there was a fire going.

Little Anton helped him over, surprisingly sturdy for such a small thing that had just pulled a full grown Nord out of the depths of the waters, and helped him sit again before the small fire. He chuckled when, after half flopping on the elf, Anton let out an indignant sound at the back of his throat. But the elf let him press close, and he was rather surprised.

When they talked, or rather he talked and Anton wrote out his words, the elf always seemed guarded. He seemed careful of what he was writing and often scribbling out what he was writing to hide what he was going to say. And, he always felt a little sad that the creature he thought as a friend was being so guarded about what he was saying. He had seen some ugly and terrible things in his life, and he was sure that whatever the elf was hiding was nothing compared to the worst things he had ever seen or heard.

It was... nice that the elf was letting him get so close physically. It was nice that his friend was letting him. Then again, when the elf shivered minutely, he realized that it was to just leech heat off of him. Poor guy, he did not have the same resistance towards cold that Nords did.

He grabbed the elf and moved him, getting a loud, harsh loud that Anton managed to make at the back of his throat. He only chuckled before pulling the elf between his legs and wrapping his arms around the thin frame. When he had the elf safely tucked against him, the elf glared at him, pouting. And he would be damned to Oblivion before he would not admit that it was the cutest damned thing that he had ever seen.

To make it better, Anton did not resist. He merely wiggled to make himself comfortable. And they sat there for a while, gathering heat and trying to dry off. And it was... nice.

~*~

The dungeon proved to be dangerous in terms of both enemies and the creatures that they had to face and the dangers of the layout itself.

Firstly, there were Falmer. And while he did not have a lot of experience facing them, he knew they were dangerous creatures. The hissing, rasping creatures had a habit of using deadly poisons on their weapons, and several times he saw Stenvar wobble on his feet from small cuts. He kept the big Nord standing when he seemed like he would fall, kept him moving so that his body could burn through the poison. He knew Falmer poison was not fatal in small doses, so he just needed to keep him moving.

Second was the layout. There was a sheer upwards climb that made it near impossible to get anything done. Whenever Stenvar swung his sword, that big lug almost lost his footing and once he did, rolling backwards towards the water again. He went running after him, of course, but the sheer ridiculousness of the situation had him pissed off.

When they finally got away from the sheer drop, they had to cross a thin stone bridge into more Falmer infested ground. There was a bit of gold to be made off the poisons, arrows, gold and such on the Falmer, but he was getting exceptionally sick and tired of having to eye on the big bastard all the bloody time.

Pressing onwards, they hit a small cliff that lead into another room. After going back and making sure that they had everything of value from the previous rooms. When that dredged up only a few coins, he jumped and was followed by Stenvar. The room held little value other than an ore vein that they could not mine properly without pickaxes. Moving on, they discovered a small number of bandits with a good amount of loot on them. And after hunting around some more, they discovered the bandit leader in a room filled with pricy delights. And when they had looted it all, he deemed the trip worthwhile enough to not warrant going to the other ruins.

Stenvar chuckled and egged him about truly being terrified about what Bruniik was doing, and he responded with a snarky note saying that he was just worried about the amount of times that he had to save the big Nord’s hide. Said Nord just chuckled and thumped his back friendly like. Big stupid Nord, and he could not help but want to protect his big bald head. He wondered why.

Hauling everything back to Windhelm, they sold everything at the local shops, having to skip around a few to get everything. It hauled in a nice chunk of coin, half of which he handed over to Stenvar. He needed to urge the Nord to take it all, as he was surprised that he was actually sharing. He made several written quips, accusing the Nord of thinking of him as greedy, but Stenvar gently told him that it was because he never got paid more than his fee. And that no one had ever offered to pay him more.

He made the Nord take it all on the promise that the next time that he was hired he would cut down on the fee. Upon hearing this, Stenvar gave him a broad grin and agreed, though he did refuse to let him go away without paying for his room, drink and meal for the night. He agreed to that, wanting something warm in his stomach even if it did not settle his hunger and a good strong drink.

At the inn, they listened to the local bard sing the praises of Ulfric Stormcloak and munched on the heavy stew. When the drunkards became too rowdy, Stenvar gently suggested he scamper off to bed before anyone got too frisky and a fight ensued. With a heavy nod, he thumped the Nord on the shoulder and hurried downstairs. And when the noises of the tavern were muffled behind his door, he noted that there was a letter on his pillow.

Slicing it open with a dagger, he pulled out a note with a black handprint painted on the corner. It was from Astrid, she was ready to get things moving.

She wanted him back within three days.

~*~

The next morning Stenvar woke up and went to the bar counter to get himself some bread for breakfast. However, the Innkeeper had a note to give him, one left by a cute little elf with a heavily scarred throat. And realizing it was from Anton, he quickly took it and read it upstairs in his usual spot.

In Anton’s neat little handwriting, the elf told him that he had to leave early to go do an errand for a friend. He did not know how long that he would be gone, nor if he would at all. But he promised that he would be back as soon as physically possible so that they could go raiding dungeons again. He wished him well until then.

Sighing, he kept the letter out as the day rolled lazily by. When the crowds grew rowdy, he took out the letter again and again, rereading the neat little letters again and again.

He knew better than to get attached to anyone. It came with being a mercenary, as well as a Nord in Skyrim. But… little Anton was a deadly, attractive creature that seemed able to handle himself given anything. The little elf pulled his big arse out of water with full armor and helped push the air back into his lungs. The little elf handed over enough gold to not only feed and house him for months to come, but also get his armor and sword fixed up and still have some to save for adventuring like he wanted.

It did not help that Anton’s appearance had him buzzing with curiosity. The sheer difference in height and size had him wondering about all sorts of inappropriate things. The thick, sharp tattoos across Anton’s high cheeks and arms. The pointed tip of his ears and his rusty red hair. And those eyes… like forever dying embers. Was it so wrong for him to be enthralled?

He liked little Anton, more than he knew Anton would ever like him. But it was at least nice to have Anton as a friend. Though… it would have been nicer still to have him for more. But he would not push, he would not reinforce the hatred Anton had towards other Nords. If Anton wanted him the same way then great. If not, then he could always travel with the elf.

He idly wondered what Anton’s voice once sounded like…


	17. To Kill An Emperor

The Orc bard had been nothing. Just a quick stab while the bard was sitting down to eat and the man was finished. Just a few adjustments and the Orc looked like he was sleeping in his chair and none the wiser as he made out like a bandit into the night.

However, as he clenched his dagger between white knuckles, he figured that the vampire would he harder. Especially since the vampire was both regularly feeding, and a former killer himself. So he was currently resisting the bastard’s charms as he and his wife looked on him in pity.

“Poor, poor brother” He chuckled, eyes glowing with his powers “Look at how thin you are, how weak you are”

He avoided eye contact, focusing on the man’s knees instead and how he was going to slice them up. But the purr in the man’s noise was making it really hard to ignore his eyes. He shuddered as the charms started affect his body. Something warm and tingly in his lower belly, but not total warmth. He was undead after all.

“Little elf, little elf. So pretty, why do you not care for yourself more?” He purred.

Footsteps moved towards him, and his chin his collarbone as he tried to keep his eyes off the vampire. However, a knee pressed against his nose and forced him to look upwards. Glowing eyes locked onto his and he felt his joints go weak, malleable. A hand underneath his chin ushered him to stand on jelly knees. His daggers fell to the ground with a sharp tinks.

The Nord Vampire grinned, showing elongated teeth that looked far too healthy for his health.

“So pretty” The vampire purred, forcing charm into his words “I want to see if all of you is pretty”

A small voice in the back of his mind demanded movement, screamed for it. But his thoughts were fuzzed over with charm of the vampire and he found himself unable to resist as the Nord’s hand moved to his back. He felt thick fingers across his back and shuddered in disgust. This fucking Nord, even in death he was nothing but a horn dog!

“Let’s get you out of this armor”

He was leaned forward enough that he felt the neck against his lips. 

The smell of death was thick and he was sure that the blood ran thick with rot. But he felt the slightest bit of power come over him without having the eyes on his. Instinct kicked in and his fangs sprang out of his gums, lips pulling back over them and snapping his mouth shut on the creature’s neck. His teeth, though weakened, managed to pierce the undead creature’s neck and dead blood splashed against the roof of his mouth.

Dead blood was vile on several degrees, both in taste, smell and texture. It was why vampires never fed on each other or too long dead bodies. Why drink from something that would just make you sick?

But the bite served its purpose. The vampire reeled backwards, away from him, blood gushing from his neck. He hit the ground, eyes slamming shut as his hands went to his daggers, gripping them tight as he circled around on his feet and sliced blindly. He felt the slightest resistance behind one of his blades and heard a shriek. He must have hit something then, and who said fighting blind was a bad idea? He readjusted the grip in his daggers and lunged, aiming for the chest based solely on sound.

His daggers met flesh and he eyes opened his eyes enough to see the vampire falling, clutching the flesh around the dagger in his belly. He pulled his dagger out and stabbed until his arms ached, spilling blood and organs across the ground. The vampire clutched his maimed belly as his wife screamed bloody murder.

He readjusted the grip on the daggers and lunged at her next.

~*~

When he stumbled back into the Sanctuary, he was still tacky with blood, having hoofed it all the way back right after killing Hern. He just… felt to tired and sore to bother even jumping into a stream on the way back. Too tired to get a room at an inn just to bathe. But Astrid did not even flinch at his appearance as she approached him with urgency.

“We need to talk. Look. Something is happening here. I’m not sure entirely what that something is, but… Well, we need to find out” She said, clearly stressed out.

It seemed that the loss of power was finally getting to her. He wished she would have her power trip after he had had a warm bath.

“If the Night Mother really did give you an order to talk to a contact, we’d be mad to ignore it” She sighed “And I think we’d both agree, Cicero’s brought enough madness to this Sanctuary. So go. Go to Volunruud. It’s a crypt, pretty far to the Northeast. Talk to this Amaund Motierre. And let’s see where all this leads. Hmm?”

He nodded, making sure to turn in his contracts to get more coin before he left. He tucked it all away and started walking, slumping his shoulders as he felt blood start to harden. This was going to be a very long adventure, was it not?

But thinking of the blood made him think of the blood that he had taken from Stenvar. Watered down with that disgusting stagnant water, he could still taste the glory that was his blood. Something hearty and heavy, salty and delicious. And it had been watered down enough for him to keep down.

Thinking of that blood made his stomach rumbled but he pushed that down again. He may have finally fed without getting sick, but he was not going to let his hunger get the best of him, especially not with his friend. 

Stenvar was his friend, not a walking meal.

~*~

He found the ruins after a few days of looking, trending through partially disturbed bones and dust as he searched through them for the mysterious contract giver. The ruins were a long abandoned place of the dead and should have been treated with respect, not for a coward to hide. But the coward was the one that was going to be handing out the gold, so he tried to be nice.

Said coward was a black haired man and exceptionally sleazy looking.

“By the almighty Divines. You’ve come. You’ve actually come. This dreadful Black Sacrament thing… it worked”

He took out his notebook and scribbled down

The Night Mother heard your pleas, Motierre.

“Yes, um… So it would seem. Well, I won’t waste your time. I would like to arrange a contract. Several, actually” The man said “I daresay, the work I’m offering has more significance than anything your organization has experienced in, well, centuries”

He just stared blankly, waiting for the work. The man coughed slightly.

“As I said, I want you to kill several people. You’ll find the targets, as well as their manners of elimination, quite varied. I’m sure that someone of your disposition will probably even find it enjoyable”

He glared, pulling his lips back over his fangs. He did not enjoy killing, it merely was a job that he took up. Someone that enjoyed killing was a psychopath and a killer, and he was neither. The man seemed shaken, but hardened his resolve.

“But you should know that these killings are but a means to an end. For they pave the way to the most important targets. The real reason I’m speaking with a cutthroat in the bowels of this detestable crypt. For I seek the assassination of...the Emperor”

He stared blankly… trying to form words. He scribbled down what he thought.

First off, jackass, I am no cutthroat.

“I beg your pardon-”

Second, this a place of the dead, have a little respect.

“Now see here-”

Third, you are the dumbest fuck to have ever lived if you think that a small guild could do such a thing without extensive planning. I can’t just go up to the Emperor, let alone being an elf, and stab him. He’s got guards crawling all over him at all times.

“Y-you must understand. So much as led to this day. So much planning, and maneuvering. Now, it’s as if the very stars have finally aligned” The man forced out.

Oh… this was going to be so much fun.

~*~

Astrid was less than thrilled. Actually, she seemed downright pissed off and stressed out beyond reason. She both seethed and teared up at the sight of the amulet and the letter. To make matters worse, she thought about the Night Mother dumping this contract at the feet of the Dark Brotherhood and just about lost it.

He stroked her back gingerly as she looked at the laided out letter and amulet. After a few moments, she seemed to have snapped, because she was suddenly eager to get it done, claiming that would install the same fear and respect that they had centuries ago. 

However, that left the amulet to be taken care of. She suggested the Thieves Guild and he vaguely hoped that this Delvin Mallory was not the red head that tried to pickpocket him. That would have been an awkward situation, and likely would have been problematic later on.

Regardless, he made the trip back to Riften and then into the stinking sewer system, killing bandits, thieves and mad beggars and then making his way into the foul smelling tavern that was the Ragged Flagon. Just a bunch of empty rooms, dirty tables, dirty bar and some rather filthy ethically and physically thieves. They glared as he came close, unsure as to what to make of him.

As he walked in, he bumped into a girl walking out. He looked up and his jaw hit the ground just as the girl’s did.

“...Tell anyone and I’ll carve out your eyes as well” Rayvahn hissed before rushing out the door.

Well now… that was a girl that was going places. Thane of a city and member of the Thieves Guild? What a busy little body!

But, he had other things to do. Like deal with an amulet.

~*~

She was trying to plot out different people in Skyrim that would be instrumental in killing an Emperor. With a royal wedding, several heated political debates and a few dozen or so trading companies in the region, it was hard to pinpoint. She had a few clues, but she needed to actually read the letters that Anton brought.

She had glanced over them, but could not bring herself to read them. It was just… too much.

Sighing, she dropped everything and went to check up on the rest of the family, looking for a distraction. Most everyone was out on contracts, except Babette who was working on poisons, and then… Cicero.

She wanted to tempt fate and yell at him, try and put him in his place. But he… frightened her. Just something about the man, like a monster in a man’s skin. Like something that was hunting everything that it saw. Like something out of a horror story.

Tiptoeing by the Night Mother’s chambers, she happened to hear the mad jester’s high strung voice singing nonsense. Mostly about death, blood, violence, and the glory of the Night Mother. Nothing that was too surprising, as she expected. However, as she turned to leave, she heard something that did not sound right in any way.

“Pretty eyes like dying suns, Listener Listener he is the one, one to bring the family to glory, one to make the blasphemer gory”

Now, she wanted to write it off as nonsense. But… was it so wrong of her to think that the blasphemer was her… and Cicero was plotting using Anton to kill her? No… no, no, no… that could not have been it… could it? Anton was loyal, he proved that. No… he was loyal to her! He would not kill her for the glory of that old hag’s corpse!

...No… he would not...would he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I just realized what chapter this was on. Seriously just realized what chapter I'm on... chapter 17 and there has not been any sort of 'yummy' bits yet. I am so sorry, but I am an avid believer that vampires are undead creatures ie kinda like a subtype of zombies (sorry, I am not like those that like vampmeyers, just no. Fuck Twilight) I will try and get more Stenvar/Anton stuff in, but no promises.


	18. Death of Vittoria Vici

He had to think long and hard about what he was going to do to kill Vittoria. As he was unsure how to explain a tattooed, scar and rather out of place Bosmer arriving at a human wedding. 

He thought about approaching at night, but while scooping out the city during the days prior, found that guards wondered every possible hiding spot and look out. They were even on the roofs, like they knew a well versed assassin would be up there.

He thought about simply showing up in nice clothing and making himself as presentable as possible. But when he tried walking around in normal clothing, he was often harassed and called a servant. Not only that, but several times a human’s hand went to touch him and he had to smack them away.

It seemed almost impossible. And while he was thinking that, sitting on the ledge by the blacksmith as the big Nord reluctantly sharpened his daggers, he felt a hand tap his shoulder. Looking back, he almost jumped out of his skin and fell over the ledge at the site of the creature behind him.

“Good to see you too, little elf” Od-Kaaz drawled sarcastically.

He recovered himself and gave the huge Khajiit a shaky smile in greeting. Well, to be fair, Od-Kaaz was a massive and mean looking creature to begin with, was he really bothered by someone being startled by his appearance.

“Od-Kaaz sees that you have managed to convince the blacksmith to work for you” The big Khajiit drawled out, glaring darkly at the human behind them, causing the man to visibly shake in fear “A feat that I am sure took more money than what it was worth”

He scowled at the big cat, not wanting to think that he did overpay the man to do something so trivial. And seeing his scowl, Od-Kaaz snorted and stomped over to the blacksmith. He was just wrapping up sharpening his daggers, which clattered to the ground as Od-Kaaz grabbed the back of the man’s neck and single handedly lifted him clear off the ground. The man howled bloody murder, but the guards did not want to fight the giant cat in Dwarven armor and wielding a hammer that no human could pick up.

“Humans, so rude to animal and Mer races” Od-Kaaz drawled calmly, quietly as the man thrashed against his unmoving grip “Perhaps the blacksmith should do something in apology for scamming the little elf? It seems rude to scam a mute out of his money”

The man, upon realizing that nothing would free him but the coin he had scammed, nodded meekly and was dropped to the ground. He scurried over to the bag he kept his day’s gold in and handed over the entire fee that he had charged. He quickly stuffed it all back in his purse, scooped up his daggers and then scrambled behind Od as the big cat walked away. Might as well stick to the monster to avoid being taken in by the guards!

“Od-Kaaz was hired along with a number of other mercenaries for the human wedding in the city. He was just looking around when he saw you” Od-Kaaz said, mostly to himself as he ran to keep up with the big cat’s naturally long strides.

Mercenaries? He wondered if Gunnar and Stenvar were hired then. Gunnar was part of that mercenary guild now and Stenvar was a freelance mercenary…

“Od-Kaaz cares not for humans, but they are are paying him a lot of coin to scare away assassins, and the Companions were busy with internal affairs” Od-Kaaz said, walking to the courtyard where guards would normally train though now it was full of rough and tough mercenaries.

Well, that answered that question. But he wondered if he could infiltrate the wedding this way-

“Od-Kaaz has no idea why a vampire would want at a human wedding, but he will tell you this” Od-Kaaz suddenly said, turning on his heels and using his full height to become that much more imposing “Od-Kaaz may hate humans, but this is a job, and Od-Kaaz will not hesitate to kill you to complete the job”

~*~

Being called out by Od -Kaaz kept him on his toes for a few hours until the evening arose. But by then he had stole some servants’ clothing and a cap to hide his red hair. And after digging around some more, stolen some human female’s facial paint and mixed together a concoction that resembled his skin close enough to hide his tattoos.

When he looked at his own reflection, his damned eyes still gave him away, but he looked like a normal elf to the untrained eye. And that was enough. He would mingle among the servants, serve a poisoned wine to the human bitch he was supposed to kill and then run out into the night. Even in the fancy clothing they had the servants wearing, he could sneak away into the night without getting detected.

After finding a scarf to hide his throat wound, he found himself with the servants as a overweight and angry human chief and task master barked out orders to the assembly of elves, young humans and the occasional Khajiit. Once that was done, they handed out platters and bottles and glasses and ordered them to go serve the guests. He was handed a platter of wine glasses and another Bosmer was handed a wine bottle and they were told to go serve it to the guests.

His cohort was a young female, pretty thing for sure, with a wild mane of curly dull brown hair tied back painfully tight against the back of her skull and left to stream down her back. She muttered a greeting to him and he nodded back and they went out into the gathered guests. He needed to carefully work his way over to his target, or else someone would suspect him. He saw Od-Kaaz looking over the crowd and feared being turned into a bloody mess. Nothing like the threat of being smeared half way across Solitude to keep one on their toes.

That and the girl he was paired with was a skittish half wit. She struggled to open the wine bottle first, and almost dropped every glass when he traded her to open the damned bottle for her. Not only that, but whenever someone grabbed her ass, she squeaked and almost dropped everything she was carrying. He had to keep an eye on her as well, as she was drawing far too much attention to him.

Part way into the party, a man grabbed her arm and tried to pull her away. She dropped the wine bottle and caused to smash against the ground, splattering several nobles’ robes and shoes. While the crowd groaned and bitched about their clothing, he sliced through the crowd to grab her. He ended up having to send the man flat on his face with a foot sweep and then toting the girl through the crowd and away from the pissed of human male.

“I’m sorry” She wailed.

He grumbled, brisking motioning for her to hold the platter. Taking it in shaking hands, she held it as he got yet another wine bottle. But at least he could dose this one up with enough lethal poison to kill a dragon. As he was taking the newly poisoned bottle back to her, wiggling through the crowd of tightly packed humans as they became drunk on fancy liquors, he felt a hand grab his arm.

Fully prepared to fight off a frisky noble, he was almost surprised to find a familiar bald headed man holding him there.

“Anton?” Stenvar smiled.

He blinked slowly, trying not to think that his friend was here… at this place...where he was supposed to kill someone…

“Anton, didn't recognize you at first” Stenvar smiled “Couldn’t imagine you being servant boy to anyone”

His mouth trembled, unsure how to explain this situation. The hand gently holding his arm was too gentle and too warm. The smell of Stenvar’s enticing blood soon became the only smell in his nose. No one would notice if he leaned in for a little peck on the neck… his fangs dropped out of his gums and he felt pain unlike any other blossom in his gut.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m here as a few of the mercenaries keeping an eye out for trouble” Stenvar chuckled “I picked up up by your eyes”

His mouth was dry, his stomach growled loudly and the hand holding the bottle shook.

“Anton?”

He just nodded briskly before holding up the bottle. He needed to get away, get away before he did something stupid and hurt his friend. He needed to get away. Get away. But Stenvar was so warm and smelled so enticing…

“Oh, need help?”

Without hesitating, Stenvar plucked the bottle from his hand and gave it a sharp twist without realizing that he had already opened it to add the poison. His thumb slid along the fancy foil and sliced itself open when it met no resistance. He only scowled at the pain as he held up his bleeding thumb, and then cracked a guilty smile.

“Didn’t realize you had opened it already, sorry about that”

The smell… was too much… he knew the taste too well to be able to resist… and he was so hungry…

He took Stenvar’s big hand in both of his, feeling his face got hot with want as he brought the calloused and red dripping digit to his mouth. His lips parted, his red tongue and fangs sure to show, and he stuffed Stenvar’s thumb into his mouth. The taste of Stenvar’s blood hit him first, and he was sent head first into a drugged like state.

Eyesight dulled, sounds fuzzed over, skin blushing in heat, thoughts scattering and a tickling sensation crawled up his spine. His mouth fell too warm and filled with saliva, and he swallowed again and again. It was only a thin trickle of blood, so his starved state did not reject it. But even the thin trickle felt like he was swallowing a steady stream of something hot and buttery and delicious.

Everything around him vanished. There was nothing but the blood on his tongue and the warmth in his body as he felt. There was a… tickling sensation along the edges of the scar along his throat, patches of tickling sensations along his skin… and… what was he thinking again? Why was he thinking?

“..ten..on…”

Huh…

“G..es…”

He was busy…

“A...tion…”

Would that woman shut up? Leave her speech for some other time-

Wait…. woman… speech…assassin...contract… he was here to assassinate the woman… while she was making a speech… Dark Brotherhood… to kill an Emperor...he was…

...Shit!

Mind snapping back into focus, he left off Stenvar’s hand with a wet pop and scrambled away. He heard the warrior’s confused, sexually frustrated grunt and ran off to the corner to scramble up some ivy that grew along the walls.

The wine was a no go, too many people focused on her now to even think about it. So he needed to use the messy option B. He climbed and crawled and came upon the loose gargoyle that Babetta had mentioned. He gave no thought and shoved against. He had no idea where he got the strength from, but the statue moved without resistance and fell like a knocked over book. And fell with a wet crunch.

~*~

Stenvar paired up with Od-Kaaz to look for the culprit. There was no way that the gargoyle just moved on its own. It was moved. And while people panicked and ran and a newly single Snow-Shod mourned the gooey mess that was his wife, he scanned the dark roofs for the culprit. However, there were already guards up there… if they did not find anything.

It was hard thinking straight… he had accidentally sliced his thumb open on that bottle. And then Anton looked at him with those weird and beautiful eyes… and then Anton was sucking on his thumb and then he heard screaming… everything was fuzzy. Hard to think with a hard-on, it was almost hilariously that this had all happened at the same time.

While ushering people away from the scene, little Anton scrambled by him. He reached out and managed to snag the back of Anton’s shirt, plucking the voiceless elf from the crowd and unthinkingly scooping him up into one arm. Little Anton flailed, flustered and panicked for no reason. But he just kept the thin, little body against his side, continuing to usher people away. No one was going to take advantage of the shit storm and harm the cute little elf. He was innocent in this mess.

When most of the guests evacuated from the area, he followed after a few of the mercenaries that were sticking with the main horde. Little Anton stopped fighting him and clung to him, and he felt cool breaths against his ear as Anton went limp in his arm. He only wondered what had caused the change in attitude for a moment before he unwittingly carted away the culprit of the crime away from the crime scene.


	19. Bloody Love

Stenvar carted him away safely away from the havoc that his little stint caused. It was almost too good to be true that he managed to make such a clean get away, and that no one pointed a finger at the little dressed up elf being carted around by the big blonde Nord. Of course an elf could not push such a heavy statue off the edge like that, no one as small and thin as he could have possibly pulled off a feat that even Stenvar would need help with.

Speaking of said Nord, the big bald idiot refused to put him down until they were outside the city gates with the other panicking guests. Once Stenvar had safely seen all the guards and returning mercenaries, he was finally set down. He pouted at the big Nord as one of those big, rough hands came up to pick at the flaking paint on his cheeks.

“You should wash this off” Stenvar chuckled.

He scowled and smacked away at the hand, having to try and grab the thick wrist when his futile attempts failed. He saw a sliver of red, and realized it was the hand that had the cut on the thumb. He forced himself to look elsewhere, giving Stevar the chance to playfully knock his pilfered hat off his head, letting his red hair spill out, having been ruffled and tangled from being tucked inside. He made several rude hand gestures that only made his friend laugh.

“You look better without it, and all this face paint” Stenvar grinned.

Rolling his eyes around, he reached out and stuck a hand into the small bag at Stenvar’s waist, digging around until he pulled out the soft cloth that the big Nord probably used to clean his sword with. Much to the big Nord’s false cringe, he scrubbed the paint off his cheeks and neck, and then along his hands and arms.

“I haven’t really noticed it until now… but you’ve got a lot of tattoos” Stenvar said as he handed the filthy rage back.

He shrugged. True, he did have a lot of tattoos, but most of them were basic bold lines. Nothing like some tattoos he had seen on other elves, and even a few humans. But regardless, Stenvar seemed in awe of him, as the big Nord took one of his arms and looked at lines he had tattooed around the thin girth of his forearm. He saw the sliced thumb glide along one of the lines.

He had to look away.

“Still, I know quite a few Nords that need to bite down into something to get one little picture of some fling’s tits on their arms. Look at you” Stenvar smiled, letting his arm go “Tougher than even us big Nords”

Rolling his eyes again, he undid the scarf around his throat and let it fall down to the ground as he started to walk away. He was done here, target killed and his next to be slaughtered. He was sure that Astrid would be pleased that he got away so cleanly, perhaps he would get a reward? He felt like he deserved one after all of this…

“Anton?”

He looked back at the bald Nord.

“We’ll go adventuring soon, right? Together?”

He found himself smiling and nodding, waving a goodbye to the big Nord as he headed back to his assassin’s guild and all the fun times there.

And for some reason... he felt some pain in his chest. He did not know what it was though. Exertion would not hurt his heart or his lungs, as neither really worked with him being the undead. And then he realized that no particular spot hurt... it just hurt. And that meant it was his damned 'feelings' that were hurting.

His friend, the only creature in quite a long time he had called such, had almost got caught up in all the mess. His friend almost found out about his way of life. And his friend almost came this close to being his enemy, as he was sure that Stenvar would have killed him on the spot. He had almost lost a living creature that he had put faith and care into. He had almost lost Stenvar. And it hurt to think about.

While he walked away, he vowed to be more careful. Stenvar would never find out about his assassin way of life, Stenvar would never find out about the Dark Brotherhood. Stenvar would never come that close to getting hurt as he was. That was a vow, on his undead breath, Stenvar would not be harmed because of him. There would be no way to continue living his eternal life. He simply could not bear the pain.

~*~

The next target was the son of the man who was in charge of the Emperor's guards. The boy needed to be killed and planted with false evidence of a failed assassination attempt because it would 1.) Distract his father and 2.) Slacken the Emperor's defenses. And Astrid offered a bonus if he was killed inside of a major city, as it would only have a bigger impact.

He agreed, of course, promising to put half the money away for his daggers and half to adventuring with Stenvar again. Once this Emperor business was settled, he figured he could put off the assassin's business for awhile and just relax and adventure with his friend. He could use some relaxing after shaking the history books for awhile.

On his way out, he met with an assassin he had not met before getting a contract from Nazir by the door. He did not hear most of the conversation, but he caught something that chilled him to the bone as he tried to pass them.

"-Nord Stenvar in Windhelm"

He turned on his heels in a trance and looked at the exchange. Nazir and the novice seemed oblivious to his presence.

"Some Noble wants in the pants of his elf friend, and thinks that killing him will make it easier" Nazir drawled "So be quick, be clean, and don't be seen"

The novice nodded and headed out. Nazir said something to him, but he was trailing after the novice, steps light and quick.

No.

NO.

NO.NO.

NO.NO.NO.

~*~

“Very good to see you all still here” The guard-captain gruffed at the remaining mercenaries “We will be making sure of the safe arrival of Gaius Maro, and then you all can go home. As things have gone wrong, none of you can expect the pay you were told at the beginning”

The big Khajiit next to him growled darkly and he just rolled his eyes. Figured that they would try and screw over a bunch of mercenaries. But at least he was going to get paid something, and Anton had given him a promise that they would go adventuring soon anyway. Just needed to make sure that this Gaius Maro showed up alive and then he could go to waiting in Windhelm for the cute little elf.

While the guard captain prattled on and on, he thought about what little Anton was doing at the wedding, with his hair and tattoos hidden. Surely he would not want to hide something that added to his appeal? Then again, the thought of someone else touching little Anton did make him feel a wee bit… wrathful.

Eyes like dying suns… or perhaps embers… or perhaps...They were not dying at all…

But about to reignite?

Right as he was thinking about that, there were several loud screams followed by a wet crunch. Turning around will all the other mercs, he saw that two bodies had fallen from the edge of the courtyard walls. One lay in a mostly chopped up pile, blood everywhere from the impact, and having mostly painted the one that was wobbling to their feet. They clutched two Dwarven daggers in their smalls hands, smeared with blood and ragged along the edges.

It seemed that the one that was not a messy pile on the floor had killed them, lacerating them multiple times before ending up over the edge, likely in a struggle. The impact must have caused the deep slices in the former to fully split, causing the mess.

While people panicked and screamed, the mercs readied themselves for whatever was about to happen. However, he realized that the red that painted the stranger was not entirely from the blood. Red hair, styled into a mohawk. Dark skin tattooed with red designs. Red, orange and yellow eyes. Thin lips that parted to lick at the red marring his skin.

...Anton?

His eyes shined brilliantly, like embers on the verge of dying or reigniting. A little pink tongue lapped at the blood staining his lips red, making his eyes glow. And… was he suddenly more appealing? Or perhaps it was just all the red… or those beautiful eyes.

“What happened?”

He moved forward, ignoring the tensed up mercs. He had only seen Anton about two days ago. But he wanted to be closer to the cute little elf. Said elf looked at him with the intensity of a predator staring down his latest meal, eyes narrowing slightly with each step. A tiny mouth that framed four sharp teeth.

Step by step, closer and closer with the world fading from around him, around them. His mind was turning to mush, his control was fading, everything about him was becoming what he wanted. Everything little Anton wanted. Quiet, complacent, nothing that he disliked and everything he wanted. Because… because… 

...what was going on? What was wrong with his head?

He stood before little Anton, mind completely blanked over. Anton’s ember like eyes were all that he saw, everything else was too blurry to comprehend. Not even the chilly wind on his skin seemed to register with his mind as he took in Anton’s glorious eyes. Because nothing else matter, nor did it seem like it ever would. Nothing would ever matter if Anton was there…

“ASSASSIN!”

Anton’s eyes flickered to the owner of the voice, snapping him out of the spell that had been casted over him. Looking over as well, he saw the guard captain rush over to the dead body, pulling most of the torso up by the red and black leather armor that it was bound in. It was… the armor of the Dark Brotherhood!

“You… stopped the assassin?” He asked Anton.

Anton looked down like he just realized that he had killed the creature and his dying ember eyes snapped open. His mouth parted in silent surprise as he took in the gory mess that the assassin was. A hundred emotions passed across his features as the cute little elf took in more and more details of the bloody mess he was still standing in.

And then he looked like he was going to be ill. The elf hunched over, the bloodied back of his hand coming up to his still red lips. He reached out to touch him, to try and see what was wrong. But then Anton was bounding away, clearing inhuman distances in inhuman times as he left red footprints across the stone ground.

“...Anton?” He called out weakly as the guards cheered around him.

~*~

As he ran out of Solitude, still dripping red, he came to a terrible realization.

Stenvar was more than a friend to him. He would only kill for those dearest to him, and in such a violent and bloody way as he did to that Novice. The last person that he killed to protect was his guild of thieves that he called his family. And… as much as he wanted to call his affection for Stenvar that of a non-blood family sort of affection… he knew better.

It was not often that he invested true affection into anything. Much less a human. But he had done it for Stenvar. He liked Stenvar in that manner, and perhaps if he was not of the undead, he would harbor a physical attraction to him as well. Perhaps not in a normal way, such as finding Stenvar physically attractive, but more in a way that he wanted to touch him in that way. And perhaps…

Well… that was it. Stenvar was more than a friend in his mind. It explained too much about his feelings and behavior around the bald Nord.

However… that also meant that Stenvar would be in great danger. His assassin way of life, his looks, everything about him would draw the Nord into danger… but he would protect Stenvar until his last undead breath, that much was certain. He would make sure that the Nord would never come to harm because of him. And even if the affection drove him to do nothing but watch the Nord until the end of his days and move on with his own undying ones, he would protect Stenvar with all of his might.

Stenvar was his… no one would harm him. 

No one.


	20. Touched by Madness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I've been having a lot of medical issues and have been to the ER and in and out of clinics. Thankfully I'm fine now, but it was really scary for awhile because 1) the doctors were shit and casually threw out 'Risk of death' and threw me into several panic attacks 2) I had so many sick days I was worried I was going to get fired.
> 
> I'm fine now and hopefully back to writing normally. Thanks for the patience and enjoy this new chapter!

Killing the Novice and then the guard captain’s brat took a lot of time, and while he scrambled back to the Sanctuary, he came up with a feasible lie.

The guards and townspeople would gossip, that much he was certain of. So he needed a reason to kill the Novice, which was easy knowing Astrid’s state of mind. While visiting a dear friend in Solitude, he saw the Novice and followed, where he saw the Novice and the brat meeting and plotting together. The Novice was plotting to give away the Brotherhood to the guards and he had stepped in. He figured that the gory death would be the figurative cherry on top.

Perhaps he had been a little overzealous, a bit graphic, but the show was enough that he could harmlessly stalk the brat all the way to Riften and leave him looking like he got jumped after late night drinking by a cutthroat. And he made out like a thief with the man’s purse and fancy ring to add to the story.

He thought his luck was on the rise when he got back and was greeted by a disaster.

~*~

When he younger, he liked riding horses. He would hide in the branches of trees, waiting for the wild horses to trot through the forest. He would drop down and jump on their backs, holding onto for dear life as the startled creatures took off like creatures from the planes of Oblivion. It was the greatest rush in the world to zip through the forest like that.

He never could afford his own horse, even while he was thiefing. It would always cost too much to buy, or cost too much to feed and take care off. And even when he came the undead and a few expenses were lifted from him, he still could not afford it in terms of money or time, or sanity for that matter.. And he lost the ability to enjoy riding wild horses in the wilds.

So, clinging to the strange equian creature Shadowmere was an exceptionally strange thing for him. A horse that was seeming spawned from the planes of Oblivion was still a horse, even if it required a small extra effort on his part to climb the damned thing. And the damned thing could gallop faster than any other horse he had ever ridden.

And as he rode like a mad elf towards where Cicero lay in waiting, he felt… something. A tingling sensation in his chest. And since it had been quite some time since his heart beat, it took him a solid hour to decipher the sensation. 

It was… the feeling of being thrilled. His heart remain still, but the long dead feelings were indeed stirring inside of him. If he were alive, he supposed that his heart would be beating in excitement, his lungs would be on fire trying to catch up with his lost breath, his eyes would be bright and eager and his body would buzz with the sensation of being alive. 

But he was not. It was just his body remembering those sensations. Nothing more, nothing less. And he tried not to think about it as he urged the creature to a halt. The black creature gracefully stopped and snorted loudly as he scrambled down and over to a fallen werewolf assassin.

Not dead, but bleeding badly. The man was barely conscious, growling as he approached. Scowling at the mutt, he ignored him in favor of the black door. He thought he could just open it, but it was password protected as well, and needed it to be vocally given. And after growling darkly at the damned thing for a moment, stalked over to the half dead mutt and grabbed him by his arm.

Dragging the man over to the door, he took one of the many unused potions from his bag and forced him to down it. He watched the wound close and watched the mutt gain focus as his body replaced the lost blood. And being faced with the black door, though still still fuzzy in the head, he got the mutt to mutter out:

“Innocence, my brother”

And the door swung open.

~*~

The fight through the Sanctuary seemed little more than a nightmare. Sensations blurred together in a dream like sequence, noises seemed misplaced or just wrong as they entered his ears, and everything he fought seemed to be out of nightmares and poorly written horror stories.

Ghouls, ghosts and trolls beat against him in wave after wave. 

Wisps of blues and purples shifted into vague shapes. Each time his daggers went slicing through them, they became fuzzier and nothing more than vaguely shaped clouds of colors before solidifying a bit so the creatures could swing at him again. Slash back and forth, his daggers hitting nothing as it sliced through the ghosts. Until finally the colors exploding and fell into dust and glowing goo onto the ground.

Cicero’s voice taunted him all the way. Madness in the form of words in a deep and chilling voice that made his spine shudder. The man was clearly more insane then he had thought. Perhaps he was not a man at all at this point, but a creature purely from Oblivion wearing the guise of a funny little man. 

He felt the weird tingling sensation as he worked closer and closer towards the jester. The thrill he used to feel when he jumped onto the backs of wild horses. The thrill of danger as he went at breakneck speeds through the wild forests of his homeland. The potential of dying as the air rushed past him and his feet slipping and clung to the sides of the sweaty creatures. And… was he excited that he was tracking down this mad man because there was the chance that Cicero could kill him.

Put an end to his painful existence.

And Stenvar’s warm grin entered his mind, cutting off the thrill sensations and making his chest hurt. 

No, he could not put an end to his existence. Because Stenvar was out there waiting for him to go adventuring again. His friend was out there waiting for him, and he was waiting for the chance to go see Stenvar again. He could not end his existence… he needed to stay alive for Stenvar. For the man that made him remember warm and pleasant feelings. For the creature that he was willing to kill for. For the man he thought he was beginning to feel for.

Gritting his teeth, he cut through the Sanctuary, fighting with renewed vigor. His daggers hit with lethal force in letha spots. He was going to resolve this, so he could get back to Stenvar. Back to his friend and those warm feelings.

Cicero was waiting for him. Alone. Laying on the floor and clutching his gut like he was injured. But his sense of smell and sight was far too good for the jester to fool. He knew that the fool was faking his injuries. Though he gave the man man points for being a good actor. Even the wheezing in his voice was rather believable.

Just as he gripped his daggers with intent to kill, Cicero offered in a weak voice a different alternative.

Let him live. Tell Astrid whatever lie about his death. That he was stabbed, strangled with his own intestines, dragged outside and drowned in the icy waters, had his eyes clawed out, or that his blood was drained to the last drop and beyond. But let him live.

And he… actually thought about it. Let the madman live and use him later on. The thrill that the funny man gave him brushed his chest again, and actually thought about letting him live. Surely the man could be useful later on. He seemed ever so loyal to him and-

The scent of his blood, hidden under the flowery scent of his jester clothes came to mind. Rich and spicy it had smelled like, hardly buried underneath the scent of the flowers and oils that the man decorated the Mother with. It had to be flavored by his madness, the darkness that resided within his mind. Rich and unique, that had to be the taste. And his stomach growled hungrily.

But Astrid wanted the bastard dead. He had tried to kill everyone. And while he was not too keen on the mutt, the others were a different story. He had not been successful, that much was true, and the worst had been done to the mutt… 

...and how would Astrid ever know? He could speak no lies, after all. If he just nodded his head and perhaps took something of the jester’s as proof of the kll, the surely he could get away with it. And use the man to his advantage later on…

Gritting his teeth, he glared down at the jester. He saw the smugness in those eyes and felt cheated. The jester knew that he was going to be spared and he was half tempted to kill him on principle. But you could only get so much blood from a corpse, and dead blood was foul. So, he just turned on his heels and left the jester to lay on the floor, faking his injuries.

As he walked back to the door, he heard something. And when he realized what it was, he felt a pure bolt of excitement rock his spine.

Cicero’s deep laughter, ringing along the hallways. The man was laughing in victory, and he did not know if he had been touched in the head by simply being around the man, or if he was simply that terrified by such a creature, but the sensations of thrill and excitement ran through his still and dead blood.

If he was living, his heart would be beating out of his chest, his eyes would be wide and lively, his skin would be damp with sweat.

And a smile would grace his face.

~*~

Back at the main Sanctuary, Astrid was waiting for him. He swallowed thickly as he approached her, ready to lie about Cicero.

He laid a hand on her shoulder, urging the woman to turn towards him with a stiff expression. She looked to him, waiting for his response. So he went into his bag, and pulled out Cicero’s hat and held it out for her to see. Astrid looked it over, not daring to touch it like a diseased thing, a taboo thing, something frightening and untouchable.

And nodded stiffly. The lie had worked, Cicero had been spared. And he swore the moment he got his hands on the jester again, he was going to take a bite of that scrawny neck and taste the blood that had made him make such a stupid decision. He spared the man’s life, he owned it. And such a loyal man would surely offer his neck if the precios Listener asked for it.

But that was later. He needed to focus on the task at hand. The contract to kill the Emperor had been delayed long enough with nonsense. And besides, as Astrid explained to him, there was only one more target before the big man himself was next. And it would require the head of a certain famous chef in Skyrim at the moment.

The Gourmet was next to meet his daggers, and he for one, was eager to get his mind off things. Tracking down and killing a chief would prove a liberating challenge for him.

As he went to find Festus, Stenvar popped into his head again. And he thought that perhaps he would need to visit his friend before he left, but then the memory of the man’s thick and rich blood entered his mind and his stomach growled.

He was starving, and it seemed this was not a bout of hunger that he could control. As much as he knew he could not take it, he needed to try and start feeding regularly again. Bits and drops of blood until his stomach could take it perhaps? Taking in a little bit more each time until he could feed normally again?

Perhaps if he started feeding, he could actually approach people, use the powers of the undead that he knew were there. It would making killing easy again, that much was certain. And perhaps it would rid his mind of that terrible temptation to drain his friend dry of his hearty Nordic blood.

At the thought of sinking his teeth into the side of Stenvar’s muscular neck, feeling his teeth dig into muscles to find a vein filled with that delicious liquid that ran through that powerful body, made his body shudder and his stomach growl again. There was no way he could approach Fetus like he was.

He needed to feed.


	21. The Vampire and The Fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cicero's point of view is really hard to write. Does he sound mad enough? Does it still sound like Cicero? Still a shit bucket for trying :(

To get back into feeding, he needed bits and drops of it frequently. Bits that he would increase until he was feeding regularly again. He would try and get back the something normal, though he never fed normally to begin with, and he was too disgusted in his own kind to try and ask for help. And Babette was a binge eater as far as he heard, and binge eating undead was always something to avoid. 

Something came out of indulging a dangerous eating habit like flesh or blood. It was like being a drug addict and then binge dosing. You could kill yourself or go crazy from the side effects. Mutts that ate flesh too often became nothing more than rabid dogs. Foaming at the mouth, unable to revert back to human form, forgetting their human sides.

Vampires that drank too often became addicted to the taste of blood and soon started drinking so much blood they would literally lose themselves in their addiction. They thought of nothing more than drinking blood and became sloppy and easy to kill. He noticed that a few vampires called this addiction, ‘drowning’ as it was literally what the vampire was doing with their bodies until the point of madness.

He was miserable, and hated all his being and history, but drowning was not something he wanted to experience, even if it took full blown addiction to human blood to an inhuman extreme. 

And since he was still starving, he needed to be careful. Give a hungry man food and he will stuff himself to the point that his stomach bursts. Give a starving vampire blood and he will drown himself. He needed to be careful, else he would be worse then a mutt.

So, he needed to take nothing more than mouthfuls, preferably from a source that was alive as he was sure he would get sick from dead blood. And this source would probably need to be willing to offer their neck to him and could fight him off if he started to lose it. After all, despite knowing full well that he would be sick, he did try twice to feed from that bastard Nord Sigrun or whatever his name was.

So… who would willingly offer him their neck and could fight him off if he got a little too hungry?

He thought of Stenvar’s hearty blood, like liquid life with a bold dash of a warrior’s history. But then realized he had no idea how to even think about approaching the warrior about it. First, he would need to break the news to his friend that he was undead, and was trying to start feeding again. 

How could he tell his friend that he was a monster and wanted to become a full blown monster again? He could not. He could not lose Stenvar. He would hide his secret at all costs from the warrior. Stenvar would never know.

And then he thought about the scent of Cicero’s blood. He had no idea what it tasted like, but it smelled divine. Spicy and lively and dark and mysterious as the man that held it. Not only that… but he had proved his loyalty to the Keeper as Listener by sparing him, right? By accepting the contract that the Night Mother? Such a loyal little man was sure to offer up that scrawny neck of his?

Just the thought of a chance to feed caused his fangs to drop out of his gums and his dry, gritty mouth to fill with saliva. Something dangerous and lively. Something willing and weak but still able to stab him in a few nonlethal spots if he could not pull himself away.

Yes… the jester would do.

~*~

When Cicero heard something behind him, as he looked upon the Night Mother’s glory, he smiled to himself. 

He smiled a lot, true, though only because he was in the presence of dear mother and she made him the happiest Keeper in the world. But this time, it was because he had a feeling he knew the person sneaking up behind him and why he was here.

He knew a lot from his time wondering. He knew that the Listener’s pretty eyes meant that he was a being of the night, darkness and the shadows. But he knew by the dullness of those colors of dying embers, the leanness of those high cheeks, the shadows underneath those pretty eyes. The Listener was starving. And he knew one of the reasons that the Listener spared him.

And he could feel the hunger that rolled off the elf as he approached from behind like a predator.

He continued to smile as he felt slender fingers hook themselves into his hair and gave a sharp yank. He was lead around, forced to take blind steps backwards away from the Night Mother’s casket. He was pulled back, feet easily finding their way, and then pushed forward into a wall, his cheek scraping the rough stone.

“Dear, sweet Listener” He grunted, as slender and highly skilled fingers yanked his collar open “Is there something that Cicero can do for you?”

His face was shoved against the rough stone harder, skin breaking slightly. Just enough that blood started to pool but not enough to leak outwards. He heard a sharp intake of breath, likely Anton breathing in the scent of blood, and felt Anton’s body press against the back of his. 

Cool breath tickled his exposed ear. It smelled slightly sweet, but otherwise like the air inside the dusty and abandoned Sanctuary. Like dust and forgotten glory, like something dark and dirty and something scary. Like the creature Anton was. An undead creature that had been starved for so long, and seemed ready to embrace his darker nature once again. A top predator shaking off his rust.

A jolt rocked his body as something cool and wet touched his skin, but a giggle escaped his mouth instead. His body was buzzing with excitement, and the feeling of Anton’s dead tongue did little more than to add to the buzz. Like when he was sliding his daggers between the ribs of a target, hearing their screams as they drowned in their own blood.

Anton was breathing hard behind him, just the slightest hint of that mysterious voice. Something gravelly and surprisingly deep for such a little body. But he could not tell for sure, it could have been simple misuse that lead to such sounds. Like letting metal cuffs and tools lay around until they rusted over and needed to be buffed clean. Perhaps his blood would do that? Forcibly buff clean that mysterious voice until Anton spoke once again. And maybe he would have the first word out of his mouth be his name-

Blunt teeth caught a bit of skin, nipping it gently. This time, he did not know if it was Anton testing the strength of his skin or teasing him. Did the undead have desires of the flesh more than consumption? That he did not know. He had never… tried to bed an undead before. He just knew that the undead had ways of making mortals desire them to make it easier to feed.

Thin lips pressed against his neck, bitterly cold. He shuddered but smiled. If what he heard was even half true, then being fed on was an exquisite experience. The venom that the undead excreted from their fangs was supposed to make their prey limp and weak, and most living creatures grew profoundly aroused from being reduced to something to weak and pathetic.

Now, he did not think that he would be aroused by the weakness that Anton would put him through. He actually rather disliked the effects on poison on himself. Made his mind fuzzier than it already was, made it hard to listen for the Night Mother’s words that he was sure he would hear one day. No, no, no he was sure that he would pull pleasure from the fact that this creature, this beautiful creature. This creature that could hear sweet Mother’s voice. This creature that was so entrenched in death and the art of it. This creature that could use his powers to become something like a reaper. Was going to feed from him.

Teeth pressed against the skin.

This beautiful creature of the night, this child of the Night Mother, this reaper in flesh and bone, was going to connect them together. Would he feel the rush of power that Anton had at his fingertips? Would he hear the sweet Mother’s voice? Would he feel as Anton did? Would he feel death flowing into his veins as death sucked his blood out?

He was dying to know.

And teeth sank into him.

The first feeling was a sharp and burning pain in his neck. Like he had been bitten by something with fangs. And a sound of pain escaped his lips. And then the pain grew worse, into a nauseating burning sensation throughout his whole neck and his head. And for a moment, he thought he was going to pass into a merciful slumber. His body slumped, and he thought he was going to hit the ground.

But then Anton yanked him up straight, pining him more harshly against the stone. His cheek was scraped raw at this point as Anton’s bony body pressed against the back of his. He swallowed thickly, throat cramping up in pain. This was not pleasurable at all! Not at-!

The burning suddenly faded, replaced with a gentle warmth. He managed to start breathing again, taking in harsh gulps of air that he had not realized that he was taking in. The warmth hit his veins and started to seep very slowly into his body. Like sweet, sweet poison. Only this poison was making his muscles go lax, making his mind fuzzy, making something in his trousers not feel right.

He dared to peek at the creature latched onto his neck. Little Anton’s eyes were closed, face contorted in what looked like concentration. But his skin had this… glow to it. Not like any of the assassin’s that harlot Astrid kept on short leashes. Not like the worn farmer, the veteran, or the abused spouse. No. This was a glow of life. Like he was taking in a breath and letting all the stress off his shoulders. Like he was living. And it was the funniest thing ever.

He laughed. And that startled the Listener out of his state. His eyes snapped open, and were no longer dull. They were glowing infernos, fire from the pits of Oblivion, fires that feasted like ravishing beasts. Fires that he wanted to consume him.

Anton suddenly shoved him harder against the wall, blood leaking down his face from the scrapes. His front rubbed against the stone, as well as the front of his propped out trousers. There was a jolt of pleasure that drowned in the fuzzy warmness in his head and body. He laughed breathlessly, still unable to get over the irony. And was shoved again, again rubbing his erection against the stone.

An undead living, it was too funny! He laughed and laughed, and was shoved again and again in Anton’s effort to shut him up. And his erection was rubbed again and again against the stone, sending jolts of pleasure into the soup that filled his skin. He was nothing but this lovely creature’s shallow drug addiction after all. He was nothing but blood to this beautiful, beautiful creature! This son of the Night Mother and creature that he desired to no end to be connected with! This creature that hE LOATHED AND LOVED AT THE SAME TIME.

Anton growled behind him and he burst into uncontrollable laughter, and his erection was grounded into the stone and he laughed and moaned in equal parts. Poison in his veins and blood being drank from his veins. And vampires living and vampires growling like flea bitten mutts and it was just-

He was tipped over the edge and spent himself in his trousers. Warm liquid pooled in the front of his trousers and he let out a long and mewling moan. Anton seemed to realize what had just happened, and suddenly yanked his fangs free, breaking him free of the sweet poison that was filling his veins.

Pleasure and warmth left him as Anton backed away from him. He slumped to the floor with his face burning, the front of his trousers soiled and his neck burning again.

And he could not stop laughing, not even as sweet Anton ran away. He just laughed and laughed and laughed into the bitter and cold silence that weighed him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as this story nears its end, I keep thinking about what I want to write after it, but I'm torn. Do I want to do a sequel to Silver Dovah? Do I want to do a big Mass Effect fic? Do I want to actually try to do the backstories to Od-Kaaz, Bruniik or Rayvahn?
> 
> Anyone want to see something in particular?


	22. Am I A Monster, Friend?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Yaoi-ish section towards the end. Nothing graphic.

Disgust.

He was curled up on his side, hidden away from the world underneath the bed in the abandoned shack while rain pounded on the hole filled roof.

His nose filled with the stench of mold, dead bug carcuses, of the old rot of the last owner whose yellowed bones lay littered in the corner, the smell of old animal excretions. A bug crawled over his arm, something with with a bright red shell with many legs, his ear was laying on something squishy and rough splitters kept piercing his cheek.

And yet all his mind could think of was the delicious nectar that was Cicero’s blood!

It was hot and had a particular tang that no other blood he had ever drank had. Like his madness extended to more than just his mind, but poisoned his blood as well. The taste of madness was thrilling, addicting. Like blackness, like drugs, and that blackness spoke to the vampire predator inside of him, lulling it out of its sleep and pulling him to the surface. Something both dark and thrilling, terrifying and amazing.

He stopped that line of thought. If he went down that road… he would find the jester again.

He thought instead how moving was easier, like something had been worked out of his joints and they moved more fluidly. How he saw better, like something had been cleared from his eyes. How he heard better, like something had been cleared from his ears. He thought about how he had regained some of the color lost in his skin, how it had a lively glow to it that was more like a living creatures. And when he looked at his body, he realized that some of the scars on his body looked like they were smaller or better healed.

When he thought about his scars… he thought that if he started feeding again, maybe his body could properly heal and he could regain his voice? Perhaps, it seemed that his starved body was immediately throwing the newly digesting blood into healing what it had managed to simply close over. It seemed possible, but he doubted that he would care much if he regained his voice. He had gone for so long without it, after all. But he supposed that if he could talk with his beloved friend Stenvar.

And when he thought about Stenvar, his chest started hurting again.

He was a monster, and likely to spiral down a very long path further into more darkness and becoming a more disgusting and twisted monster. Would his friend still be his friend if he became a monster again? Would he care at all? Would he stop seeing Stenvar as a friend? Would his friend become nothing more then his next meal? 

Or would he do the worst, and turn Stenvar into a thrall? Nothing more than a mindless puppet that was fed on by its master. And as much as he wanted to be revolted by the thought… when he thought about Stenvar nothing more than his willing puppet, obeying his every command, doing whatever he wanted…

No. It was wrong. Stenvar as his friend, and that was the thought process of a vampire, not his own.

He wondered if… if there was a way that he could… if he could… if he could cure himself. He heard whispers of cures from all regions. He heard of vile rituals, spells and sacrifices. He heard of travels to different planes and worlds. And… was it possible?

He did not know… he did not know…

~*~

Lying through his teeth, he told Astrid that he had slit Cicero’s belly and strangled him with his own intestines. She seemed pleased with this, and told him that with the fool out of the way, their next target would be a cook who would be cooking for the Emperor. She wanted him to slaughter this so called Gourmet and then take his place and poison the Emperor with a deadly root.

He wanted to know how he was going to impersonate a cook when he was mute. After all, most literature painted cooks as loud mouths that screamed and yelled at everyone around them. Not only that, but what Nord in their right mind would let an elf like him cook for the Emperor?

She took in account of that he had a valid point, and told him that she needed time to mull it over.

“I’ll think of something, don’t you worry” She said.

He sighed deeply through his nose.

“May I suggest something?”

He cocked his head to the side, wordlessly asking her to explain herself.

“Your vampiric powers don’t need your voice to work, as I have seen Babette do with her powers. And I know from our residential undead, that you haven’t been feeding right for years now. My suggestion… is feed”

He swallowed thickly, thinking of Cicero’s blood flowing into his mouth. Madness, corruption, sweet and delicious poison.

“Grow your powers, use nothing more then your body, your eyes and your touch to control those around you. It would certainly mean something in our future endeavors to have something like that on our side”

He thought of the rich heartiness of Stenvar’s blood, the sweet and delicate taste of life in it. Strength, purity, tender and loving warmth.

“Well Anton?”

He swallowed thickly.

His body had used all the blood he had drank and healed himself, and only after a few hours of feeling full, he felt starved again. And with his mind dredging up those memories of feeding, it was like having dirty thoughts for a human with high limbo.

He needed to feed again.

~*~

The blind run to Windhelm was something almost like a dream sequence, nothing more then blurred sounds and pictures while his mind struggled to make sense of everything. It was cold as he used the scraps of strength remaining from his feeding to run at blistering speeds there, and he passed so many people, threw a few on their asses if they were in the way. And his stomach was so hungry it hurt all the way there. 

He just… wanted… to… feed!

He slammed the door open to the tavern, coming inside with a fresh dusting of snow. Drunk Nords glared darkly at him, and ignoring them, he briskly walked upstairs to where his friend sat, his mouth filling with saliva as his fangs slid free out of his gums and filled the saliva with bitter poison.

Upstairs stunk of mead, vomit and drunkard’s piss. But when he saw his friend, he could only smell the aroma of blood in the air. The weak and thin mead filled blood of the Nords, and then the thin ribbon of smell that was Stenvar’s blood as the Nord sat at his normal table, idly playing a card game with himself.

That vampiric side of him took over before he could start thinking, and he stalked over to the big, bald Nord. When he stood by the Nord’s side, hunting instincts went into effect, and the powers his unconscious mind tried to rebel against went into full effect.

~*~

When he felt gentle fingers against his cheek, he nearly jumped out of his damned skin. Looking to the side, he gave a short laugh as he took in little Anton’s appearance.

“You fucking scared me!” He laughed.

Little Anton did not blink, did not show any emotion. Instead, his thin fingers came up and touched his brow, brushing against the skin just barely. And… what was he thinking? Was it something other than Anton’s brilliant fiery eyes? Impossible… they were so hard not to focus on…

Thin and little fingers traced his features, keeping him facing little Anton as he stared into those beautiful, beautiful eyes. Every muscle went lax in his body, slowly but surely, like all the fight was being drained from him. Like his body was poisoned with something potent… and so sweet.

They probably were like that for almost an hour or so, his blank mind did not know, just that he was being undone every second of it. But then Anton was encouraging him to his feet and pulling him away, his numb feet drunkenly stumbling along Anton’s inhumanly graceful steps. 

As his fuzzy vision tried to keep up, his eyes fell on the back of Anton’s head. The Mohawk that had flopped over, covering half of his head, his exposed pointed ear. And he could not help but think about wanting to lick Anton’s pointed ear, about pressing his mouth to that delicious looking skin, about wanting to strip Anton down and do terrible things to him. 

But those thoughts just tumbled around in his head, never really catching and never settling before hitting something and breaking apart.

Anton lead them down to his room, shoving him inside and closing the door behind them. The little elf turned to him, turning those glowing eyes on him again and making his mind go to complete and utter mush. Little Anton stepped forward, little fingers reaching out and touching his armored chest. Those brilliant and beautiful eyes spoke firmly and clearly without making a sound.

Strip

His fingers numbly undid his armor, letting it fall to the ground carelessly until he was in his undershirt and his trousers. There was a small foot against his stomach and his body fell roughly into a chair, complacent to Anton’s desires. He watched as the predator stalked forward, thin red lips pulled back over his teeth in a vicious smile that spoke of hunger and pain.

There was a small hand on his head, forcing it backwards none too kindly. His eyes were forced to look up at the ceiling. Even with his mind free of the gaze of the predator, it was fuzzy and refused to focus. Probably for the best when thin lips pressed against the side of his neck in a fake kiss.

He expected to feel teeth and then pain. He did not know exactly what would happen when he got bitten. His hazy mind never experienced being bitten before. Would it be painful? Would it be pleasurable? But… Anton would not hurt him, right? They were friends and… friends did not hurt one another like this, did they? It was so hard to think straight…

Anton’s thin lips lingered on his throat, unmoving. Was something wrong?

That red topped head moved down, and two little arms wrapped around his shoulders. Little legs climb into his lap and Anton curled into an impossibly small ball against him, shuddering deeply. 

And it took several moments of the lack of vampiric charms for his mind to start clearing itself. When it did, he felt exhausted, tired and sore. His mind took in account that he was only in his undershirt and trousers, and that something was in his lap. Blinking rapidly to clear his mind, he turned to the side to see familiar red hair of Anton’s mohawk.

Why… was Anton visiting him in the middle of the night? Had he been sleeping? He tried stroking Anton’s little back, but the elf remained unmoving against him, not responding. He gently murmured the cute elf’s name, reciting it again and again in hopes that Anton responded. When he did not, he began to fear the worst.

What happened to Anton? Did someone hurt him? Was he hurt? What happened?

What was going on?


	23. Bloody Kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Masturbation and blood drinking during which

He had never fought for anything so hard in his life.

Against all the predator instincts holding him back, against the hungry clawing away at his sanity, against the very nature that was his for so many countless years. He fought against it like a rabid animal, attacking that nature until he clawed his way to the surface of his consciousness, breaking free like a drowning man breaks through the surface of the water he’s drowning in.

Just in time to feel his teeth about to puncture through Stenvar’s neck, he could feel the poison leaking from his fangs, almost enough to fill his dry mouth.

And just...

He had almost lost his friend.

He had almost turned his friend into a meal. He felt the hunger, he felt the pain, he felt it. He was going to drain Stenvar dry and... kill him. The Only creature that he had opened up and put trust and time into since that damned vampire killed his guild off. He was going to kill his friend because of his damned vampire side.

In sheer agony from his emotions, from his hunger, from his pinned down vampire side, and the terror of the knowledge that he had almost killed his friend, he had curled up in a tight little ball on Stenvar's lap. It was too much, his body heaved with the inability to shed tears, with his stomach's inability to heave anything up. His chest heaved and a thin strand of sound escaped his ruined throat.

He was a monster. He was a disgusting monster. He deserved death. He deserved to die. He wanted to die so badly. To get away from the pain, to protect Stenvar, to protect everyone around him. He wanted to die, he wanted to die, he wanted to die, he wanted to die, he wanted to-

A large and worn hand touched the small of his back, jolting him free of his thoughts. It was... warm and gentle. It gently moved, gently rubbing soothing circles through his leather armor. Another hand found the back of his head, worn fingers working across his scalp, working through the loose strands of his hair, soothing him.

"Anton?"

He wanted to throw up. He did not deserve to hear his name said in such a kind, worried tone. He did not deserve it.

"Anton... are you alright?"

No. No. No.

"Anton, are you alright?"

He wanted those sweet words to stop. He wanted them to stop. He did not deserve them.

"Anton... please... are you alright?"

He had no voice and it never truly bothered him until this very moment. He wanted to tell Stenvar that he was leaving forever, that he was not coming back. That he was sorry that he could not go adventuring with him again, that he was sorry that he was leaving so abruptly but it was for the safety of a lot of people including himself.

That large hand on his head suddenly forced his head to move, forcing him to look at Stenvar and his worried marred features.

"Anton"

A miserable hiccup escaped his lips. If he was capable of shedding tears, then he would be shedding them. But he could not. Because he was a monster that did not deserve to live.

Stenvar's face scrunched up, like he was looking at something weird. And suddenly those large fingers were at his lips, pulling them apart. He resigned himself to it, knowing full well that his fangs were still out in hunger. What better way to go out then to be killed by someone you loved? It was almost romantic.

Sword worn fingers prodded at his fangs, likely to make sure that they were real. And then a single finger pressed against the tip of one, the sharp point easily broke through the thick callouses of Stenvar's finger and found blood. Yanking his finger back, Stenvar looked at small drop of blood swelling on his finger with a 'Huh' expression.

His stomach twisted and knotted at the sight of blood, but he licked a finger and rubbed it over the small pin prick and then wiped the excess off on his thigh. His saliva aided in closing small wounds, designed naturally so that his kind could save a victim for later feedings rather than let them bleed out and be wasted. And he figured it would only show how much of a monster that he was to Stenvar.

"You're a..."

He waited for the pain of being attacked. He waited for death.

"A... vampire"

He hoped that Stenvar would be kind and just kill him, just end it quickly.

"This..."

The wait for that thought to fully sink in the big Nord's head was killing him. He just wanted it to be over and the pain to stop.

"This explains a lot"

Just end it. Just end it. Just end it.

"Always thought your eyes were weird, the weird bouts of strength, how my head went fuzzy around you sometimes"

He wanted to die. He wanted to die. He wanted to die. He wanted to die.

"You know... you could have told me earlier"

...what?

Stenvar playfully ruffled his hair with that damned grin of his.

"Here I was thinking that you were in some trouble or something, or into dark magic and he like"

He stared blankly at Stenvar until the big Nord realized it.

"What? I'm sorry! I thought you were running off all the time because you were in crime or some twisted necromancer or something. I get bored and think up stories sometimes"

He continued to stare blankly, unable to comprehend what the big Nord was saying. It could not have been... there was no way... not someone like him...

"You're still giving me that look... are you confused about why I'm not bothered?"

He nodded slowly.

"...You do realize that there are about a dozen or so vampires and werewolves running around Skyrim, right? There's a court magician in Solitude, there are rumors about werewolves in the Companions, there are all the damned dens of the feral kind near the swampy areas of Skyrim" Stenvar rattled off "Besides, you ain't feral and you don't charm everyone you see... so why care?"

There was no fucking way it was that easy. This kind of shit only happened in romance novels, and trashy ones at that. There was no way that Stenvar was just that accepting of it. No-

"Um... I have a question. Does feeding... really feel as good as rumors say?"

His fangs dripped poison freely as he thought of Stenvar willing to offer his neck just to see. He swallowed the bitter toxin until he could focus again.

He nodded slowly.

"Well...I don't know if you would be willing... but I am"

That was it. He could not hold back. He could fucking think about the big Nord's lack of sanity or wisdom later. His stomach was about to punch a hole in his abdomen and he could not hold back his vampiric nature forever.

He leaned forward again, pressing his mouth against the skin he had almost bitten into but moments ago. He pressed a kiss there, trying not to rush it. He was starving again, but... this was Stenvar. Stenvar was special and not Cicero. He would try... and make it enjoyable.

Vampires secreted a toxin from both the tip of the fang and from inside of the gum that would leak down and coat the fang. This poison induced drug like effects, causing nerve endings to slow down and caused muscles to relax, as well as causing the body to release endorphins and triggering the parts of the brain that register pleasure. Basically, it made prey weak and unable to fight, as well as unwilling to fight.

Some creatures did not register the pleasure like others, and some were highly sensitive to it. But more often than naught, the feeding victim reacted positively to the toxin and made feeding easier.

Getting excited before the feeding, like thinking about the taste and fullness, caused the gums to secrete excess toxins to coat the fangs. If the fangs are more poisoned when puncturing the skin, then it cut down the pain of breaking the skin down to a few seconds at most. To make the feeding as painful as possible for the feeding victim, vampires often do not think about the feeding or wiped their fangs dry right before biting down, causing the victim to suffer through almost two minutes of burning pain before the toxins from the fang circulated the body and took effect.

With Cicero… a sadistic streak had run through him and he had fought against the thought of feeding before biting down. He felt Cicero’s body tighten in pain and felt a sick pleasure run through him.

But with Stenvar… he thought of nothing but that delicious blood on his tongue, filling him. The feeling of the big Nord’s body going lax underneath him as pleasure took over and he let himself get fed off of. The thought of the warmth that he would feel as his body absorbed the blood, healing itself again.

Toxins dripped from his lips as he pressed kiss after kiss to the skin, licking the salt off of Stenvar’s skin and feeling the Nord’s body flush as trace amounts of toxins in his saliva was absorbed. A particularly strong dose was on his tongue as he licked Stenvar again, and he felt the big Nord shudder underneath him and let out a small and weak groan.

When the skin was weakened enough with saliva, he pulled his lips back and pressed just the tips of his fangs against his skin, letting Stenvar feel the sharpness, let him back out if he wanted too. But Stenvar pressed a rough hand against the back of his head, a thumb rubbing circles into the skin. And he pressed his fangs forward into the Nord.

Stenvar grunted underneath him and then let out a weak moan. The toxins had already set in, he could feel Stenvar warm underneath him as blood filled his mouth.

The taste of life hit him like a fist to the jaw. The saltiness, the butteriness, the heaviness, the heat of it on his tongue as it filled his mouth and then drained down his throat. When it hit his stomach, he felt warmth reach every limb and then hit his skin like when he fed off of Cicero. His nerves were waking up, like the blood was breathing life into him and he was living for a moment.

He felt warmth from Stenvar’s body, felt the chilly air on his skin, felt Stenvar’s body move underneath him as he fed. And

“Sh-shit… sorry.. i-it feels… too good”

He wondered what Stenvar meant, but then realized the effects that the toxins would have on Stenvar’s body, especially with how much he pumped into Stenvar’s body. And what could he do? This was a creature that he was disturbingly attached to, that was doing something so important with him, and what else could he do but relieve his friend?

Shoving three of his fingers into Stenvar’s mouth, he got them coated with the Nord’s saliva before reaching into the big Nord’s pants and wrapping his fingers around his friend, his thin fingers barely able to wrap around the thickness of Stenvar’s erection. It was too damned big, like the rest of the Nord. And he felt the Nord’s rapid heartbeat in the thick slab of meat.

Stenvar jerked underneath him, moaning loudly. His large hands roamed over his body, making him shiver as his awakened nerves buzzed from the overload of sensations. If he could feel pleasure like he was helping the big Nord feel. But he was the undead, and he could not.

He slid a finger across the slit of Stenvar’s dick, feeling hot liquid drip out. Such shallow tolerance he had, over perhaps he had an extra sensitivity towards the toxins? It seemed to be the case, because Stenvar’s breathing was already shallow and Stenvar’s full erection filled his hand entirely and he felt it twitch on its own accord as he jerked the Nord faster and faster.

Stenvar’s hips snapped his hips forward desperately, panting like an animal. And he rubbed against the head until the Nord cried out underneath him.

And then pulling out to lick the wound clean and looking at the mess that his friend left on his fingers while Stenvar chuckled and laughed, wiping his fingers clean and holding him close and promising to be there for him all the time, even when his vampiric side came out.

~*~

“So, you have found a regular way of feeding?” Astrid smiled.

He nodded grimly, feeling sick.

“Mind sharing?”

He snarled.

“Fine, fine” She said, raising her hands “But I want you to let ne know the moment your powers are strong enough to make up for your lack of voice. This contract cannot wait forever, and you are the only one I trust to get this done”

He felt sick.


	24. Sharpen Your Fangs

After he had reported back to Astrid, he sent a letter to Stenvar that they would be dungeon raiding again, and to be ready the moment he went to grab him. However, it took him almost seven tries to even write it without thinking of the big Nord willing to offer his neck to him.

Every time he put pen to paper, he thought about the richness of Stenvar's blood, the warmth that he felt as the rich blood coursed through him, how weak the little noises that Stenvar made when he was being fed off of-

His stomach growled again.

While he knew that Stenvar was willing, he was not going to squander Stenvar's health for his gain. He would pace himself, he would not enthrall Stenvar's mind, and he would make sure that Stenvar was well rested and well fed before and after each feeding. If Stenvar would be so kind to look out for his health, then he would look out for his friend's.

That meant that he would need to feed from Cicero to help quell urges between feedings from Stenvar. And every time he thought about the jester... he thought about the dark tang to his blood, the rush of adrenaline that rushed through his body when it filled him, the sounds he made as he was abused like an animal.

His stomach viciously snarled.

He thanked whatever gods that he could not feel or show arousal, because he was sure that every time the thought of feeding crossed his mind, he would also need to relieve those urges as well. And quite honestly, it seemed every five seconds his thoughts were swarmed with the thoughts of feeding.

If he were not careful, then he would be a binge eater. He would grow lazy and addicted to the taste of blood and be hunted down and killed. And even if his body was using the blood to heal, scars fainter and his skin a bit darker... his voice was not worth leaving Stenvar alone.

The weak little moans that Stenvar made when he was being fed off of.

Gods dammit

~*~

After walking by Darkwater Crossing, he had an awful flashback of getting captured by the Imperials.

He had barely been above ground for more than a week, his body still unsure whether or not it was starved beyond hunger or if his hunger had yet to awaken. He was still unsure what had occurred in the time that he had been asleep, and careful not to attract too much attention. And he had full intentions to simply walk past Darkwater Crossing.

And then he had seen the drunken elf and the black haired girl running together, they almost ran into Gunnar. While Gunnar tried to help Bruniik's drunken ass off the ground, Od had darted onto the scene with iron cuffs and chains hanging off of him. Seeing Gunnar and Rayvahn, Od had hissed and spat and made all motions that he was going to attack.

And then the convoy had passed and the ambush had been sprung. Od had been battered with war hammers before he went down, Rayvahn had to be overpowered, pinned and cuffed before she gave in, Gunnar swung a few times before giving up, Bruniik actually managed to kill a few before a lucky blow to the back of his head buckled his knees. He himself just gave up without a fight but had his fight smashed against the ground anyway.

A hand on his shoulder pulled him away. He looked up at Stenvar with a defeated look, trying not to look at the sliver of red from the still healing bite wound visible from his collar. But that damned grin that the big Nord gave him made his chest feel weird and pulled him away from those memories and towards their adventures.

They went through a few mines, mostly looking for ore to sell. If they encountered any bandits or animals, they were killed and anything valuable lifted off their body. Ore was gathered into a bag and would later be melted into bars to sell to blacksmiths.

When they figured they had found enough, they walked back to Windhelm only for night to strike before they could reach the shops. That meant waiting for morning. And he was... terrified about being left with Stenvar. Mostly because he could not stop thinking about Stenvar's rich blood or the fact that it was there, just waiting for him, it just needed to be asked for.

He pushed it down, even as Stenvar sat too close to him at the bar, gave him that heartwarming smile too often, and the smells coming off of him.

No. Stenvar still needed a day or two to let his body recovered before he could be fed off of again. Even if he took a small amount from the Nord, and the Nord was big, he still needed time for his body to rest. So he needed to resist-

A drunken Nord sat at their table and started leaning against him too much. However, before he could swing a punch at the Nord, Stenvar hooked an arm around his waist and yanked him into his lap. Two arms came down in a rather protective manner and Stenvar glared darkly at the other Nord, who backed off. However, that did not change the fact that he was currently in the big Nord's lap, his little behind trying to balance on Stenvar's big muscular thighs.

Indignant, he smacked Stenvar's arms only for the big Nord to playfully ignore him, sipping innocently at his drink. Unable to call Stenvar names, he tried slamming the top of his head into the bottom of Stenvar's jaw only for him to completely ignore the attempts.

Foolishly, he tried to speak only for the attempt to use his vocal cords to throw him into harsh coughs. Stenvar thumped on his back until he cleared his throat, and he glared at the big Nord through bleary eyes. But Stenvar just smiled down at him, a rough hand coming up to mess up his hair playfully before he returned to his drink.

But… he supposed he did not hate it. He did admit to himself that he rather liked the big Nord, perhaps even loved him, and it was nice that the big Nord was affectionate with him. It meant that perhaps that Stenvar held some form of emotional attachment with him. And it was nice to know that perhaps there was always something there for them if they pursued it, even if his dangerous lifestyle prevented him for the big Nord’s safety.

A stubble cheek rubbed against the shaved side of his head, Stenvar happily humming against his skin. He grumbled and smacked the big Nord’s hand but allowed it.

Nothing that Stenvar could do would harm or bother him.

~*~

In the morning they sold everything they could and split the coin fifty/fifty like before. He promised that he would be back within a week to do another adventure, but he needed to go see a friend and handle a few things. Stenvar groused that he was getting jealous about this ‘friend’ of his that was getting all his attention, but gave him that smile that he liked and wished him well.

He smiled back at the Nord as he walked and scowled at the ground when he was out of sight because of what he was going to go do next.

He needed to feed, and that meant going and finding Cicero or finding another victim. And while he was tempted to just feed more than his small amount from the jester, by the time that he would get to Dawnstar he would be starving and there would be a chance that he would drain the jester dry. And he could not kill a willing feeding victim.

That meant that he would need to plainly go around feeding. However it meant that he could sharpen his feeding skills, find a way to make it less painful for Stenvar and make Cicero fall deeper under his charms so he would not have to deal with that mad mind of his. And while he would need to be careful, lest townsfolk realized that strange bite marks on the neck corresponded with his appearance and disappearance, it would be good practice.

However, he needed to pick a victim for the next few hours, because he was hungry. And he thought clearer when he was not hungry. So… what did he remember from the few years that he did feed?

Avoid the visibly large and healthy if one was too weak, and if one wanted to avoid too much of a fight. Pick a target that is away from others, to avoid getting swarmed by backup and help. Sleeping targets are easier to feed from then waking ones. If the target is awake then one must use their charms and natural allure to lull them into a listless state. 

Nords, Orcs, Redguards, and Altmer had the most blood in them, though Orcs and Altmer’s blood often tasted quite different from Nords and Redgaurds. Argonians, Khajiit, Bosmer and Dunmer’s blood tasted different and often tasted ill because of their races, Bosmer’s cannibalistic ways and Dunmer’s ashy homelands. Brenton’s tasted the best because of their human and elf mixed blood, as well as the high content of magical energies.

He tried not to think about how Cicero’s blood did taste better then Stenvar’s, both in quality and the strange buzz in the man’s blood that made it damn near addicting.

But that gave him his targets. He would feed from the Nords, Orcs, Redguards, Altmers, Brentons and possibly Bosmer and Dunmer if he was desperate. Argonians and Khajiit would only be used as a complete and last resort. He would pick ones of moderate health, ones alone from others, and ones that were sleeping if he could help it.

And with that in mind, he went hunting.

~*~

His first victim was a young Nord woman. She was sleeping peacefully as he bit into her neck, drinking deeply before licking the wound and leaving her to find the scabbed over wound in the morning.

He made it halfway to Dawnstar before his stomach started growling again and he needed to hunt again.

After a bit of looking, he found a large Orc by himself, hidden among the trees and far from any life. He seemed to be waiting for someone, but half dozing as he did so. And it took only a bit of waiting before the big Orc closed his eyes and he stalked forward. To his luck, the Orc had a loosely bandaged cut on his bicep. Working quickly, he undid the bandages enough to reveal the oozing wounds and lapped at it like a hungry animal.

He got perhaps a few licks in when he heard heavy footsteps. Mind too buzzed on heavy Orc blood, he left the wound uncovered and took cover behind a tree, peeking out enough to see what was happening.

“Ghorbash? Ghorbash?”

Snorting awake, the big Orc looked around, not even realizing that his wound was exposed. Rubbing his bleary eyes, the Orc stood up straight and looked towards a pair of rustling bushes. After a moment, a familiar big Khajiit came out, decked out in heavy Orcish armor.

“Od” Ghorbash noted.

“There Ghorbash is, this one has been looking for him”

“Sorry, had enough of those damned humans” Ghorbash gruffed.

“This one understands, though a note of where Ghorbash were going would have been nice” Od said rather… kindly.

Where was the big cat’s meanness? Unless… oh no. Those two a… not that he minded of course, it was just exceptionally queer to think of a Khajiit and Orc together. And two massive examples of their races at that…And… Shit! He fed off of Ghorbash! If the big cat caught him, he was dead! DEAD!

How was he… fuck it! He messed up. He needed to get away, fast!

Turning heel, he dashed out. Pushing his energy to run faster than any human was capable of. His feet found the smallest of footholds, missed the most hidden roots, and never slipped on the mud. He was made through the forest like a shadow, silent and only a small part of him was ever seen. 

And while it got him away from the mean cat, it meant that when he made it safely away, he was starving yet again and the oily residue of the Orc’s blood remained on his tongue like an unpleasant aftertaste.

With a grumble, he went in hunt of new victims.


	25. A Leech Among Wolves

Feeding from Cicero went like before. 

He had the bastard pinned against a desk, fangs as deep into the tissue as they would go into his tough flesh, poison nearly gushing from the tips of his fangs. Cicero laughed like before and he bit down as hard as he could to make the damned little man stop that horrid noise. However the damned creature just laughed at him.

He was witless to the jester’s rutting hips until the jester cried out beneath him, laughing as he pulled away. And he left, he let the jester lay and giggle out his highs, he felt disgusted that loved that he was buzzing with pleasure from the madness tainted blood in his belly.

But when he chanced passed by some water, he noted that his skin was almost back to the same skin tone that it was when he was alive, which he only remembered because it was joked often that it was the color of tree bark. Not only that, but quite a few scars of his had all but vanished. The ones he got when he was alive look faded, and the ones he got when he fought that human look better healed and faded as well.

And the scar on his throat… it looked so much thinner than it did before, not nearly as severe. If he kept feeding… would he be able to speak again? His voice… he had forgotten what it sounded like. He knew he was often complimented on it, that it was appealing to the ears. But… he could not recall the sound. Maybe because he was quiet because his voice was distinct. And then of course because he did not want people fawning over him for something as silly as his voice.

But that was for another time.

He had fed from several victims, mostly farmers and traders and all of them asleep or overly intoxicated, he felt stronger then he had in years. Now he needed to see if he could charm people without his voice. And that meant now actually charming an alive and healthy victim rather than feeding from a sleeping one.

Choosing his victim wisely, he chanced upon a wondering mercenary. Some big blonde Nord carrying a sword and shield. Not really a challenge to stump the man’s mind, but one had to start small, right?

He walked up besides the Nord, appearing innocent with his eyes wide and his features soft. He smiled as the Nord leered at him like a piece of meat, and when he was sure that the Nord was distracted, he focused on his eyes and pulled on the stream of power inside of him. Like a stream of water almost, he poured it into his eyes and felt it stream towards the Nord.

The Nord seemed unaffected for a moment or two, but then his speech slowed down and his features started growing blanker and blanker. And finally the Nord was completely enthralled, features blank as his mind as he waited for command. Motioning for the Nord to bend over so he could bite into the man’s neck.

When he had taken his fill, he ran away from the Nord so that the man’s mind could eventually break free of the enthrallment on his own. And as he hurried away, he could not help but think of how easy it would be to enthrall Stenvar and not just a temporary enthrallment either.

He could so easily break the big Nord’s mind into little pieces. Make the Nord totally independent on him. That way, he could never be betrayed by the big Nord, never have to be hurt by him. And he would take such good care of his pet, he would make sure that he ate and bathed, that he would not just sit around and stare blankly at the wall. And he would be able to feed from him whenever he wanted-

Stopping that thought process in its tracks, he almost was physically sick at the mere thought of it. Enthrall Stenvar? What in the name of Oblivion was he thinking? He was not a monster like that… he was not a monster that thought humans and elves and the beast races as only food…he was not that kind of monster…

…Was he?

What if feeding was causing that vampire nature of his to take over? What if he was becoming that kind of monster, and not just one that took blood to live? Was he making himself into a monster just so he could use his powers again? Was he putting everyone in risk around him just so he could heed Astrid’s orders?

He needed…he needed…

A breather. Something to make him think straight. He needed… a friend.

~*~  
He fed from a sleeping stable boy just outside the city before walking into Whiterun and then finding the home of the Companions.

The large boat house was rather intimidating to someone who was showing up to speak to one of them. But surely Gunnar would not mind his popping by? After all, he just wanted to ‘talk’ per say. He would even avoid feeding again until he was in a new Hold, just for one of the few Nords he liked.

When he pushed open the door, he was greeted with a few Companions milling about. They looked up at him and eyed him suspiciously. Not every day a fiery eyed, red haired elf walked into an upside down boat turned house. He tried not to look nervous as he looked around for the one eyed warrior.

When he could not find Gunnar, he was about to step out again. No need to stay if the only reason he came was not here, right-

The door opened behind him and Gunnar had to take a half step back to avoid smacking into him. Not that the warrior minded, as a large grin graced his strangely tired looking face.

“Anton! Nice to see you”

He bobbed his head in greeting before following Gunnar as the big Nord walked into the building, just realizing that the Nord was totting a large tome underneath one arm.

“Was just about get a few things out of the way, so if you could wait a second” Gunnar smiled.

He nodded and watched the old warrior take the tome in hand and flip it open to a desired page.

“Alright pups! Up and at them!”

The Companions snapped to attention, attentively watching the old warrior. Satisfied, he started rattling something that sounded like odd jobs to the Companions, waiting for someone to claim one before going to the next one. When they were all claimed, the old warrior barked playfully for the Companions to get to it and watched as they gathered themselves and went out the doors.

He quirked an eyebrow at the warrior, wondering what had happened. He realized that some time had passed since he last saw the old warrior, but surely he did not become boss of a band of mercenaries-

“Sorry, sorry. Some things happened since we last saw each others. I became Harbinger of the Companions, though it’s a fairly recently promotion” Gunnar chuckled, scratching through his short hair.

…Or maybe it was the case. Impressive, even for a man of Gunnar’s caliber.

“So, what brings you by?” Gunnar asked friendly like, offering a chair as he himself sat down.

He took out his paper and charcoal and scribbled something down before showing him.

My new job is stressful and I needed a friend to talk to

“Well, at least you found a job lad, can’t say the same for everyone” Gunnar chuckled “But I’m always willing to talk. Being Harbinger is stressful as Oblivion as well”

Grateful that Gunnar had not pressed him for details about his job, he scribbled out

There is mostly infighting. One person does not agree with another and they try and backstab each other all the time

“Sounds about right. Right now I’m dealing with people not happy about what happened to the old Harbinger” Gunnar sighed.

What happened?

“I… we… some stupid things happened and he ended up getting killed” Gunnar muttered.

The old Nord looked pained, so he did not press for details. Not when a man could look so tortured by the mere thought of something. Not someone that could smile so warmly and genuinely as Gunnar could look so pained.

You seem to be holding well

“I try my hardest, I got some help though” Gunnar said, smiling again.

Oh?

“You remember that pup I said I fancied?” Gunnar grinned, “Finally got my hands on him. He’s helping me keep it together and keep this place going when he has full right to watch me drown”

He sounds like a good man

“He is… a damned good man, a damned good warrior and… I don’t deserve him…I don’t. But he sticks around anyway, so I’ll keep him”

Then do your best to deserve him, Gunnar. You are a good man too, even if you cannot see it

“You’re a sweet guy, Anton”

If you truly knew me, you would not be saying that

“I can always stand to learn more…You know…We could always use another person in the Companions…”

He blinked slowly. Him, who was rouge, an elf, and an undead… a mercenary. He realized that Gunnar was a good man and all… but was he seriously considering trying to get him to join the Companions? He was not mercenary material-

But they could help…If he wanted to get away from it all… if anything bad happened that he needed to get away from the Dark-Brotherhood. And maybe away from his curse…

Selfish, wistful and not for him… but if that meant that he could drop by anytime…

With a sigh, he bobbed his head in agreement.

“Alright, pup’s out at the moment, so I have to be the one to test your mettle”

Nodding in agreement, he followed the old warrior out of the building towards the back and then to what looked like a training yard outside. Gunnar retrieved a sword that was ridiculous in length and width across before holding it up like it he was taking an offensive position.

“Come at me with intent to kill, Anton” Gunnar grinned “And no magic or enchanted weapons!”

Well… he would not come with intent to kill, but at least harm. As good as he was sure Gunnar was, he was sure that the old warrior could not stand against him when he went against something with intent to kill. Especially when he was so full on blood like he was.

Slipping his daggers out of their sheathes, he flipped them in his palms until he was holding the pointed ends back before sliding into a crouched position, eyes trained on the warrior. He just needed to see an opening-

Gunnar took two mighty steps forward and swung his sword. And since he was still reeling from the sword’s size, his half step backwards was the only thing that saved his face from being ripped off. The next swing that Gunnar was already swinging-

With a jolt he flipped back, slender body flying through the air and landing on the small awning that covered the gathering spot just outside the backdoors. He bounced off and landed behind the warrior, not even bothering to turn around before he lashed his arms out while using the momentum to spin himself around.

He fully meant to slice Gunnar’s side wide open, but he did not expect Gunnar to be able to swing his sword back around enough to protect himself, his blade bouncing off the sword’s surface with a numbing ringing both across their weapons and arms. Despite that he still bounced back, glaring at the warrior.

This was the first time that he actually felt challenged since meeting Cicero-

Gunnar spun around, swinging that damned massive sword in one damned arm. The warrior’s good eye was wide with excitement, taking his sword in both hands and grinning like a mad man. It seemed that Gunnar liked a challenge as much as he did.

With a snarl, he went down low with daggers in hand, narrowly avoiding Gunnar’s swing and-

CRACK

And not managing to avoid Gunnar’s swinging leg, large foot connecting with his jaw and sending him on his back. He tasted blood as a leather boot pressed down on his chest. Through tearing up eyes, he glared up at the old warrior as a large blade aimed itself at his face. There was no way to win, even if he sliced up Gunnar’s leg, that sword to his brain would kill him outright.

“Not bad at all!” Gunnar laughed, taking his foot off and offering a hand to him and easily lifting him to his feet when he took it.

“I, Gunnar Blessed-Shield, as Harbinger of the Companions, welcome you to our numbers” Gunnar smiled.

He wiped blood off his lip with the back of his hand, mock glaring at the old warrior.

“Now, how’s about I get you a healing potion and tell you about the Companions” Gunnar said, looking slightly guilty as he lead him inside.


	26. Breaking The Silence

He stayed with the Companions for two days, learning his new family.

He learned of their names, their faces, their skills. He learned that the black haired girl being among the Companions and kept her secret about being the master of the Thieves Guild. He valued his life and did not want to see the woman’s sadistically creative side.

He spoke with the lad that Gunnar fawned over, a young knight by the name of Vilkas. He was a calm and cool headed man, and seemed to be a good match for the old warrior. While the age was slightly off putting from a bystander’s point of view, the look in their eyes when they looked at each other told that they were a truly happy couple. Who was he to judge a happy pair like that, when they looked at each other like they were the sun to each other?

After two days he claimed to have things to do and wished the Companions well. With a smile, Gunnar assured him that he was always welcome back. Some of the Companions had a habit of wondering away for awhile, but he always welcomed them back with open arms. And with a smile, he assured Gunnar that he would be back soon.

And then he made the long road back to the Sanctuary.

He had the power to charm people with his gaze alone. That meant that they needed to get on with the contract to kill the Emperor. So he needed to take over the Gourmet’s spot and poison the Emperor’s food. Charm would help cover his lack of a voice and make anyone bend to his will.

And poison was his part of his skill set, how to mix poison into food and such to make it tasteless or potent to an extreme in taste so the person knew they were being poisoned. Strange how many skills in poison and cooking he had despite having not eaten for need in so long. But those skills would serve him well.

Now he had a Gourmet to kill.

~*~

The Gourmet was a hard man to find, and he had to rely on a so called friend of the Gourmet. Funny enough, this man was also called Anton, though a wizened Breton that gripped and complained about Skyrim’s cold and harsh lands.

However, trapping the man in his room late at night, slyly closing the door behind them and smiling wide enough to show off his fangs quickly had the man in a talking mood. And while it would have been more productive and faster going with his own voice, he had to settle on showing the man the signed copy of Uncommon Taste and waiting for the man to put the pieces together.

The man blubbered out that the Gourmet was an Orc named Balagog gro-Nolob and that he was in Nightgate Inn, likely taking some leave before going to cook for the Emperor. And then through tears, the man begged him not to kill him.

He tried not to think about the cold humor as he killed the man. Anton killed Anton. Cicero would appreciate the joke.

But jokes aside, he knew who he was going to go kill now.

~*~

His charms were draining, as he found out.

Vampire charms relied on a great many deal of things, voice, eyes, smell and body language. A vampire used their voice to play with the victim’s mind, eyes to lull them into listlessness, smell to further get into the victim’s mind and body language to keep their attention. Together a vampire could lull almost anyone easily into their control.

However, he was trying to be discreet and he lacked a voice. So he lacked voice and body language, and had to rely heavily on eyes and smell as he lulled the Orc over to the water’s edge. And when he finally got the Orc close enough, he felt drained and fed off the Orc despite the heavy, almost greasy taste. Half drained, he shoved his knife into the Orc’s neck and shoved the drained body into the water and watched it sink. He waited for most of the blood to settle in the water before turning back to the inn.

Gourmet killed, he went into the Orc’s room and stole the man’s books, some of his clothing and an exceptionally dull-witted looked Chief hat. Tucking that all into his bag, he quickly reported back to tell the others, as well as get a fancy ring from Festus and then go to poison the Emperor with the root that Astrid gave him.

Along the way he studied the Gourmet’s recipes and such, trying to make sure he knew what the man was like. Overly flamboyant, a lot of unnecessary fluff and an exaggerate flair. Though he had to admit that some of his recipes looked promising and wondered how weird Stenvar would be if he offered to cook for him. Maybe he would when he got back and fed on the big Nord.

Along the way he managed to get his hands on some face paints and covered up his tattoos and tucked his hair underneath his new hat. He used scraps of cloth to get the clothing to fit and look comfortably over his leather armor so that he could easily fend anything off in case anything went wrong.

That was something that was bothering him. He was almost positive that something was going to go wrong with the contract. Something did not feel right and he could feel his gut crawling with worry and nausea as he approached the city. Something was going to go wrong and he felt sick inside of his own skin.

When he finally entered the city, he was so jittering that he needed a distraction. So he wrote a letter for Stenvar, claiming that he would finish up what he was doing and be back to go adventuring again. He mused a few ideas for a few adventures with the big Nord, and promised to take more than a week or so to show up. He was eager to see his friend again, and wished him well until he saw him again, and then paid a messenger to deliver it.

He felt a bit better, so he reported to the kitchen with the woman Gianna to ‘assist’ him in his creation.

~*~

She was going to be sick, she was going to be sick, and she was going to be sick.

She had saved her Brotherhood, she had saved her family, and she had saved her power and glory. But at the cost of dear Anton’s neck. He was a damned good assassin, and he was damned powerful… but she had found out about Cicero. 

A few whispers of death and injury here and there and she had found out that he had been frequently entering and leaving the Dawnstar Sanctuary, looking healthier when he left. The bastard had Cicero there and was feeding off of him. No wonder he was so powerful, he was feeding from blood that was the purest form of madness and death.

He had betrayed her, and she could not guarantee that he would not do it again. She had beaten herself over and over again for outright killing one of the best assassins she had ever seen in her entire life, for killing a creature that perhaps was not going to harm her or her family. But she wanted to keep her family safe at all costs. She needed to save them.

So… it was alright to get rid of little Anton. She would miss his undead eyes, his predatory grace and beauty, the way he turned killing men and women into a dance of elegance and art. But she would not miss him if it meant saving her husband and friends. Maybe she would kill the commander afterwards in tribute to him-

The front door to the Sanctuary was kicked in. She barely had time to turn around before she saw the mass of soldiers wielding torches already burning down everything precious to her.

~*~

Finely chopping the Jarrin root into thin shreds, he added it to the pot and watched Gianna stir in the potent poison. She took a whiff, but thankfully did not taste it. Else the poor girl would have dropped dead.

“It smells heavenly. I’ll have to make it on my own sometime, but with some extra horker meat and salt” She sighed “Now we just need a moment for the root to cook and we’ll serve it”

He nodded, wiping his hands off on his apron, while checking t make sure that the rigid form of his daggers remained underneath his clothing. He let out a shaky sigh when he found them, extremely nervous at this point. Something was going to go wrong and his body was hyper wired to attack. If he did not calm down, he would end up stabbing Gianna for no reason other than she moved.

“And there, are you ready to serve the Emperor, Gourmet?” Gianna asked, already filling a platter of bowls with the deadly stew.

He nodded and helped the girl heave the heavy platter towards the party. He just needed to get the bastard to eat the stew and he would run like his ass was on fire. He just needed to get the bastard to eat the stew and he would run straight to Stenvar to get rid of this terrible feeling, to get rid of this terrible sickness in his belly.

He just needed to kill an Emperor and he would run back to the one creature he put feelings into.

He just needed to kill an Emperor.

~*~

Burying her knife into another Oculus agent, she tossed the corpse aside into a growing fire. He screamed as he flailed, blood and fire sprouting from his body.

With a snarl, she slashed another agent, tearing out most of his neck with her blood dulled blade. Her face was sprayed with blood, causing the heat that pressed against her skin to grow only worse. It was so hot, so incredibly hot, but she needed to keep going. She needed to keep going further and further into the flames if she was going to save her family.

She should have known that the man would betray her. Now poor Anton was going to die for nothing. Her family was going to die for her vanity and hunger for power. Everything was going to die around her because of her. And it broke her heart to know that everything was going to fade to blackness because of her dumb mistake.

Pushing forward into the flame infested Sanctuary she tried to pick out any of her friends and family among the bright colors of fire and death. She saw shadows among the lights, but nothing that looked familiar. Fire was eating away at her feet, she could feel her armor melting against her skin and sticking to it.

Was this her glory? Was this her power? Being so easily devoured by flames?

Was this all hers?

Poor Anton… he was likely dead at this point.

~*~

Biting into the neck of another guard, he ripped out most the flesh there and let blood wash his face before pouncing on another man. Talons caught this man’s chest and ripped and clawed until he hit bone, but he still bit into the man’s screaming throat and drank until his head was fuzzy.

He was beyond enraged at this point.

Astrid, of all people, betraying him for the Oculus agents, Astrid, betraying him and then getting betrayed herself. That bitch was going to die for trying to kill him because she was pissed about losing her power. That bitch was going to die, as well as anyone that tried to protect her. He would slaughter the entire Brotherhood just to get revenge for her actions.

She must have been so cozy in the Sanctuary, laughing as she thought about him lying dead in Solitude. She probably was laughing at the thought of him being dead, thinking about how the vampire died again. And the thought of that coy smile made him go into a blood rage that had him drinking and biting and overall acting like a mad vampire as he carved his way out of the city.

He felt his powers overflowing from him. Each step was faster and more fluid, each swing of his hands and arms was stronger and easier, his bites were harder and harder, and his nails had already extended into razor sharp talons. His enemies paused as he saw him, enthralled by the charms his body was exerting to burn through some of the blood he was consuming in mass.

And perhaps that was the best part of it. He could charm everyone into thinking that he was not the cause of the bloodshed when he was done. Just bat his eyes and watch everyone forget why Solitude was painted red with the blood of dozens of guards. He wondered what they would think did it when they saw the blood again-

A guard came at him with a shield, raising it to protect his face. He was about to dart around it when he caught his reflection in the dull surface. Even distorted as it was, he saw something horrifying.

His nose was scrunched up in an unnatural way, eyes glowing brightly a deep and dark red color, fangs sticking out of his mouth because of length and his lips stained a black/red color. Red veins glowed underneath his skin.

The shield smashed into his chest and he tumbled to the ground, quickly getting up as his mind cleared itself.

He needed to think… about something else… besides… Astrid and… blood…

The man came at him, he swung his armor and slapped the shield out of his hands before going into the throat and burying his fangs into soft and yielding flesh and taking his fill before his mind caught up and shoved the dead man away.

No… he was not becoming blood drunk… he was not a monster… he was not…

He faced the crowd of guards gathering to kill him.

He was not… he was not a monster… Stenvar… Stenvar…

He thought about the big Nord’s smile, the warmth that he carried, about the gentleness in his eyes and the way that the big Nord ruffled his hair. He thought… he thought about the man he had come to love but was too scared of losing him to admit it to him.

“Ste…Sten…”

The guards took pause, staring at him.

“Sten…var…Sten…var…Stenvar…Stenvar”

In his blood rage, blood had been directed to healing what was left of his lingering injuries. All the scars of that time he was attacked were gone. And that meant the one that inhibited him most was now healed.

He could speak again. His voice was once again his. So he turned on the crowd and exerted all his power into his eyes and his new, still rough voice.

“You never saw me. I was never here. You were all imagining me”

And then he was running away as the guards reeled from his minds being fucked over.


	27. For He Is Death

Burning fire caught his attention first, as well as the corpse of Festus pinned to the tree like a rag doll. The door to the Sanctuary had been kicked in, fire peeping out from the top of the doorway, shy little licks at the air as he approached and dove in.

His daggers were out and already slashing at any Oculus agents that were in the doorway waiting for orders to flee. They went down without a sound, though the roar of the flames within was sure to drown out any noise that he made. He could rip and roar and tear and render and they would hear nothing.

However, he was trying to keep his vampire side down. He needed to keep that deep well of want for blood down until he figured out a way to get away from binge eating. He needed to keep himself from becoming that kind of monster. He needed to remember his friend.

Punching through into the main room of the Sanctuary, he saw the mutt go down in full beast form. And with the beast down, three agents came after him. But with several slices of his daggers, they were down with their elbows, throats and wrists slit. The aroma of blood was quickly drowned out by the smell of human flesh cooking. The smell of fat and skin and hair being eaten by the ravenous flames made him sick to his stomach.

Looking around, he found the half burned away body of Veezara. It looked like he had taken an arrow to the head and died on the spot. Poor creature, he always did like him, even with their gruff first meeting. 

Cutting further in, he found the body Gabriella on the ground. Blood pooled underneath, prominently around where her stomach had been carved out. By her lay her pet spider Lis. He recalled admiring the damned beast when he first arrived, impressed that a spider could be tamed. He supposed it was only fitting that they go down together in the place they called home.

Gabriella, Veezara and Arjnborn were dead. That left Nazir, Babette and Astrid to still be alive. Well, the first two because the moment he saw Astrid he was going to cut her like the ignorant pig sow that she was and string her intestines upon her dead husband’s burning dog corpse.

Down in the kitchen he found Nazir surrounded by agents. He was quick to dive bomb from the top of the stairs onto one, burying his fangs into the man’s neck and tearing out flesh. Blood hit his mouth and he quickly directed it into quickening his movements. Swift and quick, he was slicing with his daggers through the rest of the agents, letting Nazir slice through the last man with his curved blade.

“So you are alive. I was starting to wonder” Nazir coughed, wiping ash from his brow.

“The Emperor… it was all a trap. Someone set us up” He snarled, baring his fangs.

Blinking several times at the foreign sound of his voice, Nazir shook his head and pushed the questions in his eyes away. For later he was sure, when they were not all dying.

“Considering most of us are now dead, I assumed as much” Nazir coughed, shielding his face as a bout of flames struck out to touch his face “And before you ask, no I don’t think it was you. Well… maybe I did, but you saving my sorry hide just now sort of erased any doubts”

He cocked an eyebrow, slightly hurt and offended to be honest. Nazir coughed, grinning like a fool.

“So thanks”

“We need to get out of here” He stated.

“You’ve got that right. Only a mater of time before we’re roasted alive. Come on!”

Nodding, he followed Nazir through the flames and thick puddles of still unburned oil. They just needed to get out, away from all these flames. Being the undead meant that they would actually harm him, his undead flesh prone to fire of all damned things. He needed to get out, Stenvar was still waiting for him-

“Listener”

Oh gods… anyone but the Night Mother. Anyone but that damned corpse.

“I am your only salvation. Come. Embrace me”

No. No. He was not pressing himself against that disgusting corpse again. Never again. And he hated confined spaces after being buried for so long, so there was no way that he was going to press himself into a coffin again. No. he blatantly refused.

Pressing forward, they killed another agent before finding themselves stuck in the Night Mother’s chambers. There was no way out… except to seek shelter in the Night Mother’s coffin. And he refused to do that, even if he would surely die from being burned alive.

“Damn it, there’s got to be a way out of here!” Nazir wheezed, looking around with wide and reddened eyes.

He looked around as well, but could not find anything. There had to be a way out-

Flames reached a puddle of oil and suddenly a wave lashed out at them. He naturally backed away, fearful of one of the few things that could hurt him. His foot caught the corpse of the Oculus Agent and he tripped backwards into the Night Mother’s coffin. The force rocked the coffin back, and when it rocked forward again the doors slammed shut in his face. They locked as he slammed his hands against the tightly sealed lid, forgetting his voice and letting out a savage roar.

There was an explosion outside and the coffin moved. He found himself pressed against the Night Mother’s corpse and an overwhelming sensation rocked his mind, like inky black tendrils digging into his thoughts.

Now sleep

~*~

He did not dream. His mind, though alive, was also dead and thus he did not dream. When he could finally find the peace of mind to close his eyes, there was just the darkness of his mind and then he would open his eyes to find the hours had slipped away. Sleep had soon become a way to ease the passage of time for him.

However, as he remained locked inside of the Night Mother’s coffin, his mind did dream.

He dreamt of ideal, romantic fantasies of Stenvar and himself. Stenvar laughing and smiling with him, the big bald Nord’s eyes warming at the sight of him, being able to feel the rough hands of the Nord against his face, feeling his lips on his cheeks. The warmth of being held by that big Nord, the being able to hear the great hammering of his strong heart against his back.

Ideal, stupid day dreams he did not want to admit that he had.

And then his mind would turn towards that fateful day. The pale skinned Altmer standing on a bed of the corpses of his friends, red eyes boring into him. He was in too much pain and filled with too much rage for the vampire’s charms to affect him, and fought most of the battle crying and screaming. He remembered having a weird thought that sex with the vampire would be amazing while he was sticking a knife into the bastard’s stomach and completely ignored it.

Terrible, terrible memories that he did not want to revisit.

No… he pushed back towards the fantasies. He wanted warmth and love and affection and kindness… not memories.

Remembering the pathetic and weak noises Stenvar made when he fed from the big Nord, the warmth that flooded his mind and body as the big Nord’s blood rushed into him. How Stenvar had held him after him as the flood of terrible feelings threatened to drown him, pulled him free from that and told him that he was not a monster. He was not a monster, Stenvar has said so himself… so…

…it had to be true, right?

But still he needed to be… he needed to be cured. He had heard rumors that there were cures for being the undead. He needed to get this. He needed to stop himself from going down that road. He needed to protect Stenvar. And he needed to give up on being afraid of death to the point that he would keep himself buried in this curse.

He needed to cure himself.

Suddenly he freed himself from the overpowering presence of the Night Mother in his mind. More than that, he could hear sounds outside of his prison. Footsteps, scraping of metal and sound, voices that became clear to his suddenly alert mind.

“Hurry, Nazir! I’m telling you, he’s in there!”

“I’m going… as fast… as I can, you stupid she-devil. I don’t see you… helping” Nazir grunted through labored pants.

“I’m not exactly built for manual labor. Now come on, you’ve almost got it”

“One more… pull…”

There was the sound of something heavy hitting the ground and the voices became louder and clearer.

“Yeeaaah! There”

“Can you get it open?”

“I think so. Just hold on a moment”

You must speak with Astrid. Here, in the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary

Well she did not sound pleased. Probably because he rejected her from his mind. But also probably for the tragedy that had just taken place. Regardless, his plan was to find Astrid and gut her. So he would do so… without words.

Sensing the Night Mother’s anger at him, the door suddenly opened and he fell out into a pile of sore and weak limbs. He blinked in the light a few times and looked up to see Babette and Nazir standing over him. Despite weakness, he got to his hands and feet and wobbled on his knees.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down. It’s alright. You’ve been through a lot. Maybe you should just sit down for a bit…”

“The Night Mother bides me to see Astrid” He said, full intent not hidden by his tone.

“Oh! Well… in that case… lead on. I’m right behind you” Nazir said while Babette gaped at him.

He would eventually explain his voice returning to them. But he needed, nay, he thirsted for Astrid’s death like the craving for blood that gnawed at him. He needed it so bad that it physically hurt. And with his fangs bared like an animal, he marched through the destroyed ruins of the Sanctuary in search of her.

He followed the disgusting stench of her flesh and blood, marked by the fire, until he reached her room… where she was laid out like a sacrifice. And he… was not expected that.

Cracking open cooked eyelids, a pair of yellow and red eyes stared at him. The indent where her mouth should have been cracked open and a red sliver hissed out words from a destroyed windpipe.

“Alive… You’ve alive… Thank Sithis…”

He was not… expecting this… he was a bit surprised.

“Please. There is much… I have to say. And… not much time…I’m sorry. So very sorry. The Penitus Oculatus… Maro… he said that by giving you to them, he would leave the Dark Brotherhood alone. Forever. By Sithis, I was such a fool. All of this… it’s all my fault. You are the best of us, and I nearly killed you… as I’ve killed everyone else…”

He was… unsure how to feel. Yes, he felt betrayed… but also he pitied the woman who was trying to save her family. Look at what he did to save Stenvar, look at what he was going to do t protect Stenvar. And… how was he supposed to feel?

“D-Don’t pity me. I deserve whatever fate the Dread Lord has in store. I betrayed you… and now Maro has betrayed me. Fitting… I just wanted things… to stay the way they were. Before Cicero, before the Night Mother. Before… you. I thought I could save us. I was wrong. But you’re alive! So there’s still a chance. A chance to start over, rebuild. That’s why I did… this”

His eyes wondered over the candles, the knife, the nightshade, the Blade of Woe that lay by Astrid’s side. This was like… was she really...?

“Don’t you see? I prayed to the Night Mother! I am the Black Sacrament. Cicero was right. The Night Mother was right. The old ways… they guided the Dark Brotherhood for centuries. I was a fool to oppose them. And to prove my… sincerity, I have prayed for a contract. You lead this Family now. I give you the Blade of Woe, so that you can see it through”

He picked up the blade, feeling it’s pleasing weight in his hands.

“You must kill…”

He held the knife poised in the air, already knowing the answer.

“Me”

He poised the knife between her cooked ribs, and then thrusted the blade forward. Astrid grunted, already in agony from the wounds earlier.

“Rest in peace, my sister” He said.

The red sliver of her mouth quirked into a smile and her eyes closed.

“Thank… you”


	28. Breaking the Habit

He somberly walked back to the Night Mother, feeling waves of agitation roll off her as he approached.

Astrid is dead. It is as it should be. May she find redemption in the Void. But while you live, the Dark Brotherhood lives. We must fulfill our contract. Emperor Titus Mede the second must be eliminated. Speak with Amaund Motierre at the Bannered Mare in Whiterun. He will know the true Emperor’s location. But first, inform Nazir of your plans. For you are the Listener, and must bind this family together.

He smirked coyly at the last instruction. Of course she would try and push him to obey her, now that his mind was firmly set and free of the poisoning influence. Maybe Astrid had been right and not wanted to return to the traditional way of doing things for the Brotherhood. But it was too late for her, and he still had a job to do.

Returning towards the front of the ruined Sanctuary, he found Nazir looking over the room where they had planned contracts and the like, and where Astrid remained a good many hours of her days. He lightly tapped the Redguard’s shoulder, which turned to look at him with a tired and haggard expression.

“By Sithis, what a mess. I guess this is the end” He sighed deeply.

He recalled his voice, and spoke. The wear on his newly re-found voice was starting to show, as it sounded like he had gargled glass shards and heavy ale when he spoke.

“Not exactly. The Night Mother has spoken to me again”

“What? Well, what did she say?”

“I must speak with Amaund Motierre? But that would mean…”

“The contract is still on. The true Emperor must be assassinated”

“You mean… there’s still a chance? But how? Our plan has gone to ruin, everyone is dead, the Family…”

“Our family lives on, Nazir. You have to trust me”

“…hmph. Alright, then. Go. Go, my Listener. Find out what that slimy bastard Motierre has to say, then send the Emperor to Sithis” Nazir paused for a moment, thinking “Ah, but when you’re done, there’s no use returning here, is there? I was thinking… the Dawnstar Sanctuary. We could make a proper home there”

He was about to agree when he remembered a certain little man living there and his mouth went dry. Would Nazir really care if he had spared Cicero? The man had seemed indifferent to Cicero to begin with… and surely against anything that Astrid had ordered considering her recent betrayal.

“Anton?”

He gave Nazir frightened elk eyes.

“…Listen, when you’re finished with this Emperor business, meet Babette and me there. I’ll find some way to move the Night Mother. Don’t Worry. Now go! And come back with a barrel full of gold, hmm?”

He nodded and head towards the door only to pause in the doorway.

“Nazir?” He called back.

“Yes, Listener?”

“When you get to Dawnstar… there is a guest that will be waiting there… try not to hate me too much for who it is” He said before fleeing to finish the contract.

The sooner he could get this done, the sooner he could get back to Stenvar. And the sooner he could focus on curing himself of vampirism. His heart and mind was set on it, and nothing would turn him away from that.

He just needed to kill an Emperor and then he could work on claiming his life back. Kill an Emperor, and claim his soul back from whatever dark depths. Kill the Emperor, and he could feel and touch things again. Kill an Emperor, and he could…

And he could have Stenvar.

While he ran towards Whiterun, he realized that vampirism was standing in the way of Stenvar and himself. 

Because of his undead nature, he would not age with Stenvar, and there would always be that danger that his self control slipped and he drained the man dry. And being a vampire, he could not feel the warmth of Stenvar’s hands on his skin, or feel aroused by anything that Stenvar did.

He could have always kept himself in tight control, and not all relationships had to have sex in them. But the thought of watching Stenvar wither away… he could always end it with the big Nord of course. But what would the big Nord think about it? Watching his lover remain the same for years while he himself grew old and wrinkled. No amount of love filled words would soothe his soul, he was sure.

And what if someone found out about him being one of the undead? They would kill him for sure, but to even think about what they would do to someone that willingly hide that information… he wanted to be sick.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he had little choice in curing himself if he wanted to protect Stenvar.

He needed to cure himself, if at all possible. But who would know such a thing? It seemed like it would stray into dark magic territory and-

Bruniik-Kah.

The drunken mage’s image appeared in his mind and he realized that a reckless mage would probably know a few things about such a thing. Bruniik came off as a man that would contract vampirism just for kicks. So a bastard like that needed a way to cure himself when he got his kicked and wanted to love on with his life, right? It had to be the case, if nothing else the drunken mage had to at least know something.

Yes, that had to be the case… it just had to be.

~*~

Amaund was more than a little surprised to see him, apparently having heard about the destruction of the Sanctuary. And with a fanged smile, he assured that all was well within the Dark Brotherhood in his raspy voice that had the poor man’s eyes bugging out of his skull.

However, seeing as his hired assassin was still alive, was more than eager to still kill the Emperor since the Dark Brotherhood was still willing. And eagerly divulged the man’s location. A ship just off Solitude had his ticket to freedom and time to cure himself of vampirism.

But he had to be quick about it, as the Emperor was trying to leave in wake of the chaos in Skyrim. And if he wanted payback for the attempt on the family’s life, the Commander was on the docks trying to haul the Emperor’s ass out of the frozen Oblivion. Two birds with one elf, as he so bitterly thought about it.

The race to Solitude pushed his body to the limit and he had to drink heavily from several victims along the way to continuously feed his energy supply.

He was pushing because he wanted to return to Stenvar. He was rushing to free himself to free himself of the damned curse. He was rushing…

Because he wanted out.

~*~

Night was falling as he descended onto the Solitude docks. His bow was out and his arrow dripped bright purple poison as he silenced every guard that he came upon. Bodies litter the docks with arrows sticking out of their necks and faces.

Commander Maro would be found with most of his throat torn out, though the body would lack a lot of blood for such a savage wound. He licked his lips as the blood warmed him and kept his sense sharp as he climbed into the ship.

With fluid grace, he slaughtered whoever crossed his path. Poisoned arrows, neat knife slices, silently draining them dry and leaving a wake of corpses behind him. Though there was little blood. He made sure that any bloodshed would be from him drinking to his heart’s content on the sailors and agents in the ship.

He needed to think clearly when he faced the Emperor. And the kill strike was getting him far too excited. Drinking hardly did anything to quell the sheer excitement, and he found himself giggling and smiling as he killed man after man on the ship. Some dark part of his mind wondered if Cicero’s blood had finally made him lose it. And tried not to laugh at the thought of Cicero tainting him from his own damned addiction.

Perhaps he needed to cure himself after all, if he was slowly becoming blood drunk.

Opening the door to the room that the Emperor was in, he was surprised when he saw a rather calm and older looking Nord sitting at a desk.

He scowled as the man evaluated him far too calmly for a man facing his soon to be killer. At least the man’s first comment was that he was an elf.

“And once more” Titus said in a voice that was far too tired and far too emotionally drained to fit the face it came out of “I prove Commander Maro the fool. I told him you can’t stop the Dark Brotherhood. Never could”

He eyed the man warily, still having an arrow poised if the man was trying to secretly signal his personal guards. When the man stood up, he aimed an arrow, but the man just quirked an eyebrow at his jumpiness, stopping to flatten some imaginary wrinkles in his robes before facing him with too confident and straight of a pose.

“Come now, don’t be shy. You haven’t come this far just to stand there gawking” The man sighed, his tone suggesting that he was dealing with a troublesome child.

“…You” He started “You were… expecting me?”

“But of course” The man said with a hint of sarcasm “You and I have a date with destiny. But so it is with assassins and emperors, hmm?”

This man was…something else. He felt his arms slacken the tension on the bow.

“Yes, I must die. And you must deliver the blow. It is simply the way it is. But I wonder… would you suffer an old man’s few more words before the deed is done?”

It was just an old man against a full fed undead… everything in him screamed for him to just kill the old man. Everything screamed and begged for him to just put an arrow between the man’s eyes. But…

“I’m listening” He said.

“I thank you for your courtesy” The old man said with a tired smile before walking around the desk.

This time he did not flinch, but rather, let the man walk over to him and stand before him. He saw the dark bags underneath his eyes, the bloodshot pinks and reds in the whites of his eyes. He saw the creases and lines that should not have been there, and then realized that this man was suffering because of him.

This man was the creature that he was hunting and he was going to talk instead of lashing out against his aggressor. This man… wait, was what he was feeling was… regret? Was he regretful of harming this man? That was not his usual…that was not the Anton that had showed up in Skyrim. This was not…

“You will kill me, and I have accepted that fate. But regardless of your path through life, I sense in you a certain… ambition. So I ask you a favor. An old man’s dying wish. While there are many who would see me dead, there is one who set the machine in motion. This person, whomever he or she may be, must be punished for their treachery”

He stared wide eyed at the man, unsure of anything going on around or inside of him.

“Once you have been rewarded for my assassination, I want you to kill the very person who ordered it. Would you do me this kindness?”

For several long moments, he forgot his voice again and raised his hands to try and make some form of an answer. He struggled with himself for some time before his voice came out in a thin, weak thread

“I will… consider your… request”

“Thank you”

The man clapped him on the shoulder as he numbly brought out his daggers. His hands were shaking as the man presented his back to him. And…his chest convulsed when he stabbed into the man’s heart from behind. And he shook as he held the dying man in his arms, muttering how sorry he was that he was a monster as the man closed his eyes forever.

~*~

The thought that Gunnar was in the city only passed through his mind for a second as he stormed through the storm ridden city in the dark of the night, fully intent on the kill. Gunnar… he would confess to Gunnar everything when it was all over. He would go to the man for help because if he had to remain stuck in his old ways for another day without hope he would fall on a sword and die.

He was done killing for coin, and he was done being a thief, and he was done being a monster. He wanted out, he wanted out, he wanted out so bad it hurt as much as his empty stomach. His hunger disgusted him to no end, like it had when he was trying to abstain.

How far had he fallen?

The man was in his room, glad to see him again. He was far too eager for an innocent man to be lying dead in a ship, and practically glowed with joy. And he saw the joy drain as he brought out his daggers and advanced on the man. He tried to reason, he tried to offer more gold, he tried begged and threatening him with the guards. And in the end, the man was crying against the corner as he thrusted his knife forward into the man’s belly.

This man would be the last man he killed for the Dark Brotherhood. This would be the last kill that was not absolutely necessary to preserve his own life or the life of his loved ones. This was the last man to die by his hands because of how far he had fallen since the good old days where he was just an elf trying to get by, by picking pockets and stealing bread from shops.

This was the last man, he swore by the Nine.


	29. Defend Yourself, Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this written up the day prior, believe it or not, and was going to post it a few hours after I had posted the previous chapter to make up for my recent slow pace. But I have the misfortune to be making a required visit to the folks, and while doing edits for the chapter, my father reached around my screen and bashed a bunch of buttons by means of playing around with me. Several windows opened and then closed and the doc closed, and when I opened it, the entirety of the contents were deleted.
> 
> So, sorry I was not able to post this last night, as I was spending most of last night and early this morning rewriting it and then drowning my sorrows in Dragon Age 2

He reported back to Nazir, expression giving away nothing as he told the Redguard how he had killed the Emperor. And he tried to remain stony faced as the Redguard bubbled with enthusiasm for the contract being over and started talking about getting the guild on its feet again. Things to do to improve the guild, recruits to gather, contracts to take up. Oh how the man went on about such things.

And he tried not to think too deeply about how he was already thinking about ways to escape it all, nodding and scowling at the man’s energetic words.

The Companions… all those muscular warriors had to be a great way of protecting himself, right? Gunnar had no idea that he was an assassin after all. He could feign innocence that yet another human was picking on the elf again. He was nothing more than the thin, rouge elf with strange eyes after all as far as anyone outside the Dark Brotherhood and Stenvar was concerned. 

Speaking of Stenvar, he needed to start taking the man everywhere with him. As soon as the Dark Brotherhood realized that he was trying to get away from them, they would target him. And he would soon die then let anything happen to the man. To his last undead breath he would defend the man, and he would use all of his undead strength to protect him. Stenvar’s safety was the first thing on his mind and would remain there.

Nazir finally let him leave with a promise that he would seek out Delvin again about repairs to the Sanctuary. He swore up and down that he could get around to it and left, running as soon as the door closed behind him.

~*~

Stenvar was excited to see him, picking him up and swinging him around with that too warm grin on his face. The big Nord fussed over him as he dragged the Nord away to a private table to talk to him.

He… needed to say something. He needed to explain the situation to him. Something. Anything. But when that big, dumb, loveable bastard threw an arm around his shoulders and gave him that damned smile… he could not. He could not face the pain that would come from the rejection of Stenvar finding out that he was an assassin that had just recently killed the Emperor.

Literally, he had no idea how that big Nord could accept him for being a vampire. And did not want to test just how accepting the big Nord was and…

It would come later, when he could elegantly say the words to keep the big Nord. For now, he could explain that he wanted to get away from everything for a good chunk of time and that he wanted to take Stenvar with him. The big Nord was surprised, but grinned and agreed. He said he was willing to go at any time and he said they would go in the morning.

Best for it to be light if he needed to protect Stenvar from any assassins after them. An eye on the bush and a hand at his dagger at all times.

They talked for a bit to whittle away the evening.

He broke the news that he could speak again with the big Nord. His voice was nearly destroyed when he finally spoke aloud, worn from use after so many years without. But Stenvar grinned from ear to ear hearing it and asked to hear his voice.

“Say your name” He asked.

“Anton” He rasped.

“Now say my name”

“Stenvar”

“Hmm… say it slower”

“Stenvar”

“Say it with a skip in your voice”

“Stenvar?”

“Now-“

“Stenvar!” He laughed.

“Oh alright” The big Nord grinned.

That night Stenvar allowed him to feed from him again. And the same happened the last time as well. And when they were done, Stenvar dragged him into his bed and held his close, rubbing the shaved side of his head against the stubbly side of his jaw affectionately. He protested and squirmed in the man’s arms, but could not really find the fight in him to free himself.

With a smile, he allowed himself the comfort and joy of simply behind held affectionately and enjoyed it. If he was really going to try for a normal life then he needed to get used to such things. Warm and affection rather than cold deception and gilded words, hugs and kisses rather than backstabs and poisoning arrows.

A normal life after how many hundred years of being alone and cold? It seemed like more of a fantasy then being a vampire… and it was a tale that he was eager to live out.

~*~

In the morning they ventured out and made it to Whiterun in two days. And then he started his long decent into pissing off the Brotherhood by first ignoring them and then never speaking to them again.

About three weeks or so he did jobs for the Companions. Killing wild animals, killing bandits, freeing hostages. It was clean work, and more importantly, it was not morally stressing work. No, it was killing a wild animal because it was destroying someone’s home. It was killing a bandit that preyed on the weak. It was freeing people that had been taken captive by lowlifes.

It was clean, and more importantly, he did not lose sleep over it. It was not claiming the life of an innocent because of a pissed off douchbag. It was not killing a man because it would have been ‘right’. It was not doing the dirty work of a snobby noble that was pissed off at some other noble. While it was still not exactly a pure lifestyle… it was not as taxing as the Brotherhood had been on his mind.

Three weeks and he made fast friends with the other Companions and their own tagalongs.

Rayvahn with her radical views about women and men, sharp and short temper and her foul mouth. But also her love of dressing up hair, of potions and new magical spells, and her love of a   
good contest of skill. And her friend Argis, and his quite demeanor, but his heart of gold and his impressive skills with a shield and sword.

Od-Kaaz with his ugly looks, stone faced expressions and cold way of dealing with things. But also his true softie personality, his love of insects and animals, and his love of warm cooking and a big family like the Companions. And his friend Ghorbash, and his gruff outwards personality, but his fine skill and his ability to be warm and loving to those that he felt deserved it.

Gunnar with his brash and childlike personality, his crude humor and overall loud and obnoxious   
presence. But also his ability to accept and love and his love of storytelling and test of skills and honor on the battlefield. And his lover Vilkas, the quiet and broody knight with a pure spirit and good heart.

He learned their names, faces, backgrounds and stories. Rayvahn’s tragic past with growing up in a brothel, Gunnar’s sketchy background with how he fought in an ‘unnamed’ war, how Bruniik’s background was completely shrouded in mystery and kept that way, Od’s past life as a slave for rich nobles. 

How Rayvahn learned magic to liberate her mother from a brothel only for the woman to turn around and try to kill her daughter and ended up getting killed herself. How Gunnar got his size from his mother’s side, as well as his skills as a warrior, and how he managed to lose an eye. How Bruniik’s past seemed key to why he was the way he was in the present, and that his book wielded some dark and dangerous magic. How Od slaughtered his last master to get away, an underage girl, just to get away.

He learned their strengths and weaknesses. All because these people trusted him so easily and… he wanted to trust them too, of course. It was just… hard to get out of the criminal mind set. It was hard to move away from all that past that followed him. It was hard… but he was trying. Trying hard.

And one day he would break free.

~*~

He was surprised when Gunnar invited him to the wedding of him and Vilkas. But he accepted anyway, as it would be nice to finally see those two hook up. He had tried to wager they would have at least shagged a week ago, but lost when Bruniik’s eavesdropping caught nothing. Fifty coins lost, but worth it to sneak around like a couple of kids with the drunken mage and feisty spellsword during the night to eavesdrop on the two.

To avoid hauling such a large group, he went with Rayvahn, Argis and Bruniik ahead of the grooms and the big softies. He clung to Stenvar’s side as Rayvahn and Bruniik talked magic and then smack about each. And after several hours, they made it to Riften without a hitch.

During his adventures with the Companions, he had visited Riften several times to make it seem like he was still working for the Dark Brotherhood. Bits of money to trickle into fixing the Sanctuary, bits at a time. Letters to Nazir that he was busy. Exchanges with the thieves and such. And found himself Thane of the city in a brief time, with a house to call his own as well as a housecarl.

And since he did not want Bruniik getting kicked out of the city for drunken disorderly conduct in the local tavern, he invited the four to house in his house for the night while they waited for the grooms to show up.

Bruniik got drunk of all the mead in his house and had a riot downstairs in the makeshift beds set up. Rayvahn laughed as the elf tripped over his own feet, and he smiled as they just simply had fun into the night and part of the morning before rising early to get ready for the ceremony.

The grooms stopped by his house to get changed and they all went off to the temple of Mara.

The ceremony went off without a hitch. The line were said the two husbands slapped the rings on each other. All fine and good… until Bruniik decided to make it interesting. He dragged Od and Ghor up to the altar and paid the fee to have them wedded. And he wondered if it had been a joke at first, just to watch Od fumble and trip over his own words and squirm. But then Ghor agreed to it and the two were actually married on the spot, though Od seemed mostly in shock.

And if that was not enough, the drunken lout dragged Rayvahn and Argis up there and those two tied the knot.

He was not quite sure what to think when the mage dropped down between him and Stenvar.

“Heeeeyhhy… you shoush hooksc ups with eeemmmm” Bruniik said, jerking a thumb at Stenvar.

He parted his lips, eyes darting to the big Nord.

Were they… ready for that?

Sure, they had become extremely close in the past three weeks. And he fully admitted that he loved Stenvar to the man’s face… but were they ready for marriage? And would he be able to simply resist the temptation of breaking Stenvar’s mind if he ‘owned’ the man? And… it would just hurt all the more when he revealed that he was an assassin…

“Maybe another day” Stenvar grinned, rubbing the back of his neck and saving him.

“Boooarrrrressss” Bruniik declared.

He stood up, and then fell down, out cold drunk. And he laughed, loudly, with everyone else. And they got the drunken dumbass onto Od’s back and started to head home.

~*~

When Vilkas and Gunnar ran off, as well as Rayvahn and Argis and Od and Ghor, the rest of the Companions simply walked back to Jorrvaskr. His hand was twined with Stenvar’s as the big Nord drunkenly wobbled next to him. He heard Stenvar humming underneath his breath the whole way back to the whelp bed they shared, and kept humming as he stripped the Nord and shoved him into bed and curled up next to him.

“Heeey… Anton” Stenvar drawled.

“Hmm?”

“Why don’t you want to get married yet?”

“…I don’t know. Did I offend you when I refused?”

“What? Not really… maybe it hurt a little…”

“I am sorry… it’s just…”

“Is it because…?”

“Mostly yes… I want to cure it first… I don’t want to give into temptation and… hurt you”

“Hah, you couldn’t hurt me”

“Is that an insult against my size or my class?”

“Whut? Naaah. I meant that I love you too much for you to hurt me” Stenvar chuckled.

Playfully swatting the big Nord’s chest, he curled up against the big Nord and muttered into the warm flesh

“When I am no longer cursed… when I am no longer cursed I promise”

~*~

In the morning his heart was crushed.

A note nailed to the doors of Jorrvaskr discovered by Gunnar. A note with a Black Hand print with a message underneath

“We know”


	30. Ashes, Ashes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently no one caught that I've been calling Cicero a Breton this entire time, and I got a none too pleasantly worded remark about it. So I will be going back and fixing this mistake.
> 
> I don't mind being told that I am wrong. What I mind is someone being an ass when they are telling me I'm wrong. Seriously guys, I don't mind my mistakes being pointed out, just don't sound like asses when you do so. I don't bruise THAT easily. And with my betas always running away on me, I really, really don't mind when a mistake is pointed out.

As he held the note in his shaking hands, Gunnar’s hands were on his shoulders, trying to rouse him from his stupor.

“What does it mean, lad?” Gunnar asked urgently.

He looked up at the big Nord, mouth quivering as he fought for the right words to use. He had not wanted to tell the group like this. He had not wanted to tell them like this… nothing like this. And he was sure that he was going to get struck down on the spot for this crime!

“What is that by the way?” Vilkas asked “It looks… familiar”

“The Black Hand” Rayvahn said, snatching the note from his hand.

Oh no… she knew his secret. Sure, he could have spilled her secret, but what was a thief to an assassin? She would simply be told to turn her life around and he would be killed.

“It is the mark of the Dark Brotherhood” She said “Usually it denotes targets, but for them to send a message like this means that you probably meddled in their affairs”

Her sharp eyes looked up to his and he could read the question there. She knew that he was part of the Dark Brotherhood, and was wondering what he had done to bring the wrath of the guild on him. He swallowed thickly and avoided those keen eyes.

“Was it because you killed that assassin of theirs in Solitude?” Stenvar asked.

“Killed one of their assassins?” Rayvahn asked “That would not bring down their ire on you. We have all killed Brotherhood assassins after our lives. No. This would mean you directly interfered with something important, like a contract of their affairs”

His mouth was dry and he could not stop shaking. He had not wanted it to come to this. He had wanted to break the news gently. He wanted to explain himself. He did not want to be put on the spot like this. Nothing like this.

“Anton, what’s going on?”

If he could cry, he would be. Because he saw no other option. He was unjustly backed into another corner and his mistakes were going to get him killed.

Turning towards Gunnar, he latched onto the big Nord’s armor and he cried out

“Help me!”

~*~

He wondered if it had been a bit much. 

After all, he was just trying to get the Listener back to dear sweet mother. Little Anton had not been around to hear her voice for some time, and he wondered if she was growing angry with his growing absence. So he went to investigate and found little Anton in the company of barbarians. Warriors! Who hacked and slashed with no skill and laughed and drank and were certainly not the people Anton should have been hanging around with.

He watched Anton for another week or so and realized that Anton was making no motions to come back home. He smiled and laughed and seemed… happy with the warriors. And one in particular, the large bald fellow, made him rather mad.

First, Anton clung to him far too much, smiled at him too much, and touched him too much. And then, he found out that little Anton had his voice back because the pretty elf seemed to say the bastard’s name every five words or so. And then how Anton continued to feed off the man and the man alone.

Was he jealous perhaps? Oh yes, most definitely. Anton should have been pledged to the Dark Brotherhood and the Dark Brotherhood alone. No one else, no other guild. And he missed the violent pleasure that the pretty elf gave him, and he missed the contentment of having someone who could finally hear mother’s voice.

So he left a note for Anton. It would reveal Anton as the assassin and he would need to flee back home to the safety of mother and the family. He would come back and he would be sure that Anton was safe and comfortable in their home. That or be killed, and he was sure that Anton no longer wanted to die as he had wanted to when they first met. And his Listener would not die for something trivial like love, he was sure of it! Anton was a good son to sweet mother, just like him, he would not die because of something shallow like a human life.

Anton would be there any second he was sure-

There was a monstrous thud from the main door, and a after some rather loud banging, the Black Door tumbled down the stairs that lead to where it should have been as a powerful echo throbbed through the walls. While the Sanctuary had not been making a lot of noise before, it was dead silent as the echo rocked the air. 

He looked to the bent and distorted door on the ground, and then to the stairwell and heard many heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. The Redguard was stalking up the steps with his curved bade out and a novice wielding a bow behind him.

His hands were already at his daggers, kicking the coffin to the Night Mother shut. Must keep Mother safe, must keep her safe from intruders. The Unchild was already up from her alchemy table and had her fangs bared at the stairs, hands on vials of poisons to throw at enemies. While the locks tumbled into place, the first body appeared.

It was a big Nord with black hair and one eye carrying a large sword. He looked pissed and, and raised his sword to his shoulder.

“DEFILERS!” He screeched “WHO ARE YOU?!”

“…My name is Gunnar Blessed-Shield, I am Harbinger of the Companions” The man said flatly “And I am here to burn this place to the ground”

~*~

The screams killed him. The smell of fire and cooking flesh. The ways that fire was already sprouting from the wreaked doorway. The way that he heard the Night Mother’s screaming from the chaos inside.

He sat in the snow in front of the door, forced to watch the chaos because it was he had collapsed after Gunnar had Thu’umed the door in. And watched as the Dark Brotherhood was destroyed.

When he had told Gunnar, the man had gone quiet for a long time. And then he ordered all Companions, all of them, to march to Dawnstar. He begged Gunnar to forgive him as he trailed after the crowd of warriors and such. He begged until his voice cracked and broke and failed him. And then he was just forced to watch the man start destroying everything.

Stenvar had gone in as well, leaving him alone in the snow. And now he was cold and alone and watching his family burn. Which one perhaps…

He just felt terrible. He was a monster. A backstabber. A traitor. Less than nothing and worth nothing. He deserved to be killed. He needed to be killed. It was what he deserved, it was more then he deserved. But it had to be so to make up for his atrocities. For all the lives that he claimed. The decadent monster lifestyle he had been living. Lying to the people he asked help from. He was a monster despite all his attempts to not be. A monster. A monster. He was a monster.

Eventually, a screaming pair of bodies was brought back outside by a bloodstained Gunnar. The rest of the bloodstained and ash dusted Companions followed out shortly, looking grime and tired and worn.

“Anton” Gunnar said gruffly.

He looked up to the one eyed Nord.

“Anton?! ANTON?! What is going on?!” Cicero screeched, arms bound and a big hand on the back of his neck.

The Night Mother’s corpse screamed inside of his head, a rope around her neck.

“Anton…” Gunnar said.

He managed to get to his feet.

“ANTON!”

“… I can tell what you want” Gunnar said, shoving the screaming Jester down and face first into the gravelly snow “Maybe… maybe you want forgiveness? From me, from the others?”

He blinked. Would Gunnar off his forgiveness? Would he offer it from the others as well? He did not think… that Gunnar would even think about it. But if he was willing-!

“Kill this man, burn the corpse” Gunnar ordered briskly “You want forgiveness for your actions, for asking our help in doing this? Then start by freeing yourself from this life. Kill this man, the last standing member of the Dark Brotherhood. Burn this corpse that he was protecting, whatever it was”

“ANTON?!”

…Yes.

He drew his daggers.

Kill the Jester that haunted him. Kill the Mother that whispered dark things in his mind. Kill the man that had tainted him with his madness tainted blood. Kill the corpse that wanted to twist his mind to her will. Kill these two… and he was free from their addicting poison. Free from the Dark Brotherhood for good, permanently.

Cicero was screaming, the Night Mother was screaming. Gunnar was waiting for him to decide. The Companions were waiting for him. Stenvar… he could not read his lover’s face, and perhaps that hurt the most.

Taking the dagger, he thrust it forward into Cicero’s throat and slit it to the side. Blood gushed out the screaming Jester’s throat. The delicious, delicious poison spilled down the front of the jester’s chest and stained the snow, his throat, his mouth and his nostrils. Those crazed eyes bugged as his life essence drained out of him, bloody mouth opened to gurgle on his own blood.

The smell of that sweet, sweet poison… made him sick to his stomach.

Leaving the jester to chock on his own blood, he bent down and gathered up the Night Mother’s corpse and walked over to the door way to the Sanctuary. She screamed and raved, but she was nothing more than a corpse after all. And she burned like one too as he set her in the flames to burn. And the more the withered corpse burned, the fainter her voice became. Fainter and fainter until it was an annoying buzz, and even then that annoying buzz faded.

And then he was alone.

He was free, but was it truly worth it in the end?

It cost him friends and family, it cost him the Companions, it cost him Stenvar. And while the weight was gone… it took all of the contents of his chest with it. He felt weightless. And he felt worthless. Did free men feel this way? No wonder they bound themselves with things like families, lovers, duties and morals.

This feeling… that he had worked so hard to achieve… was not worth it.

He watched the Night Mother burn until nothing but ash remained. And then he turned back to the Companions.

While he was wallowing, Gunnar must have ordered most of them back home, as it was only him, Bruniik, Vilkas, and Stenvar. And the old man looked tired, or perhaps ashes had gotten into his lone eye? It did look rather bloodshot. And his face did look rather drawn.

“Bruniik has told me… of your curse” Gunnar finally rumbled.

He nodded slowly, not sure what he was agreeing with.

“And I have decided…” Gunnar said, but then pausing and breathing out his nose.

“I have decided that you have suffered enough” Gunnar said “Six hundred years of being alone, hunted and living with so much death? That alone is your punishment”

…What?

“But! Before I allow you to rejoin the Companions, you are to cure yourself. There is no ifs, ands, or buts about it”

…He was not… going to be killed? He was not going to be punished? He could keep the Companions? Was his luck really that good? Was this all a dream then? Freedom and the happy ending that he always craved… it had to be some nightmare then, as it was sure to turn sour any moment. Gunnar was really going to kill him, Stenvar was going o say that his love was a rouse, Bruniik’s cure meant eternal torture.

Stenvar came forward and captured his face between those large hands. Calloused thumbs swept underneath his eyes and then over his cheeks, up the sides of his nose and then underneath his eyes again. Those gentle eyes were looking him over, examining him, like he had just opened his eyes for the first time in forever.

And then that husky voice broke the gentle crackling of the dying flames.

“You and your secrets. How many times do I have to say, that I love you too much for you to hurt me?”

~*~

“So, you were a thief?” Bruniik asked as the tired Companions sat around the hearth fire.

“Yes” He admitted.

When they had gotten back, he had finally opened up and told them his story. He told then of the life of poverty, the thievery, the vampire attack, the first brutal years, the sleep, and finally his struggle across Skyrim. It only seemed right to finally tell his new family his story after he had heard theirs.

Now before the fire, curled up against Stenvar’s side with one of the big Nord’s arms around his slender frame, he told him his tale.

“But surely you would not need to steal if you lived the wild life in Valenwood” Gunnar said.

“No matter the society, Human, Argonian, Elf, Khajiit, there will always be those that are poor simply because someone else said so. And since I had been left by my parents, I was considered unwanted and had to live off the scraps of society. Thievery came naturally when I was close to starving” He said.

“Damn… and then you pick pocketed a vampire and he found you out?”

“Our guild was not discreet with our operations, most knew about us. It was too easy for him to find us, and far too easy for him to pick off a bunch of street urchins, elves, the sick and the misshapen” He explained.

“He… killed children, elves, the sick and the physically deformed?” Gunnar asked in horror.

“And a few elders as well, but yes. He was rather peeved that I had taken his amulet” He said.

“All over an amulet…” Rayvahn hissed.

“It was an eye sized chunk of ruby inlaid in a gold setting with diamond trimmings” He said, recalling the pretty prize “It was worth my weight in gold”

“No excuse” Rayvahn snarled.

“And then you slept?” Bruniik asked, letting the feisty spellsword steam and stew.

“No, I tried to live like a vampire for a few years. I tried to teach myself to feed, to hunt to blend in among the living like nothing had happened. However I have… issues with drinking”

“Issues?”

“I become addicted too readily to the rush of life a vampire gets from feeding. When I felt that momentary feeling of life, the taste of the blood, the rush of the hunt. I could not feed without maiming or killing, and became disgusted in myself. It was then that I trapped myself in a cave to try and protect those outside” He explained.

“That must have been terrible” Gunnar said.

“It was. I starved to the verge of death, but could not die. My thirst parched my throat to the point it broke from swallowing and yet I could not die. My mind caved as I was wracked with pain day and day with no end. I ended up losing my mind. That was until the Nord showed up and tried to kill me”

“What happened to him?”

“He almost killed me, and I fully killed him and feasted until I was sick. And then I realized that I could not control myself and then I buried myself in hopes that time would calm my unquenchable thirst. When I awoke, shortly afterwards, the adventure at Helgen happened” He said.

“So… you slept for almost five hundred years?” Bruniik asked.

“I think… I do not recall a lot of details. I slept for a long time. I was a failed vampire for such a long time. Time itself has blurred to me, becoming meaningless in wake of this eternal torment” He sighed.

“Wow, did it help at all?”

“I thought it did. When I awoke I found myself so hungry that the hunger itself had seemingly canceled itself out. I was literally so hungry that I was no longer hungry. While I was weak physically, more so then a human I predict, I was happy to be rid of the hunger. I thought I could pursue some coin, and what better way than to return to old ways?” 

“But why not find a real job?”

“In human dominant lands? That is not a choice for me. In humans lands, my choices would have been degrading and little paying work where I would be abused and tormented by humans. I could not live with myself then. And besides, my sense of morality had been so twisted by then that I wanted to kill people for coin. It was…exciting”

“So, you were with the Dark Brotherhood” Gunnar asked.

“Yes, I worked contracts and such. And then I found myself lacking skills, or the power to use these skills. I was weak… and losing my ability to control my hunger again. I tried to feed regularly, and managed somehow to do it for a time. But then I started losing control again. I was going crazy and feeding too much. It was how I claimed my voice back though, the surplus of blood allowed me to heal old, old wounds”

“You found ways of feeding regularly?” Rayvahn asked, squinting.

He looked to Stenvar. The big Nord blushed, and then pulled down the collar of his armor to reveal the small scars where he fed from. Seeing this, the group showed a mixed ray of emotions.

“He is not enthralled, if that is what you are wondering. I could not bear to break his mind like that” He said softly, a hand coming up to the big one on his knees, touch it reverently.

“Well… and then you what, had a change of heart… or what?”

“A contract finally broke me. I could not stand it. I wanted out. I wanted free. And I tried to break away peacefully, but then that note and then the fire and…” His voice trailed off into awkward silence.

“And now you’re picking up the pieces and getting ready to move on” Gunnar said “Speaking of which, it’s everyone’s bed time”

People started shuffling off to their beds without a fuss.

“You too Anton, you’ve got a big day tomorrow”


	31. Welcome Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Anal sex, rimming, anal fingering, size difference, biting.
> 
> I wondered why this was sitting around still, and then realized that I forgot to post it. So sorry for those that have been waiting for this!

They needed to travel to Morthal.

According to Bruniik, there was a priest named Falion that knew how to cure vampirism. He also said that he had written ahead to the man.

“Falion is keen on vampires and skilled in ways to defend himself from you. He will be able to tell that you are an old vampire and would probably assume that you were there to kill him” Bruniik explained as Stenvar packed “However, I have told him that a recent member of the Companions have opened up about his curse and wishes to rid himself of it”

“…Thank you” He muttered.

“Are you sure about this, Anton?” Bruniik asked, mirthfully eyes suddenly serious “Giving up that kind of power, giving up the ability to live forever… it cannot be easy”

“I never wished to live for eternity” He admitted “And the concept is not appealing. Who would want to live forever, watching everyone you love wither and die away? To forever fear a fight in the sun? Fear that every mortal is out there to get you?”

“Still, all those nifty vampire powers?”

“I do not wish to enthrall anyone, drain them of their blood, summon undead thralls, and turn into any monster or anything of the like” He said firmly.

“Well, just wanted to make sure. Living forever is a bewitching concept to almost every living creature out there simply because they fear death” Bruniik said, eyeing that mysterious tome of his laying not too far away “Are you saying that you do not?”

“Bruniik… I am dead. I can hardly feel the wind on my skin, I need blood to go on, and it is hard to be underneath the sun. And if I remain as such, I cannot promise the safety of Stenvar” He said, not caring if Stenvar could hear him or not “If it comes to the time where I worry about his death, and I become selfish in keeping him with me. There is no way that I cannot say that I would not turn him to keep him forever”

“Fair enough. Not all of us can say we have that special someone that we would do such great things for” Bruniik smiled sadly.

“Are you one without?”

“Sadly, yes. But that is more of a, I can no longer trust anyone to get too close, rather then I have not found worthy people” Bruniik sighed, looking older for a second “So keep Stenvar close, Anton”

“…Until they day that I draw my last breath”

~*~

The entire trip on foot, he held Stenvar’s hand.

Having gone so long without feeding, he did not ‘feel’ Stenvar’s hand like a mortal would. A mortal would feel the heat, the calluses against their skin, how the thumb idly brushed against the back of his hand when his pace faltered. But he did not. His mind registered what he was feeling and registered it coldly. He felt without feeling if it was possible.

He wanted to feel the warmth, the roughness of Stenvar’s travel worn hands, he wanted to feel the tenderness in the way that his much smaller hand was held. He wanted to feel something. Anything. He no longer wished to be the undead. It was like being deprived of air simply because he would not open his own damned mouth and it was now only frustrating.

Eternity alone was a nightmare to think about. Eternity with a broken lover was even more hellish to think about. Now… now he just wanted to be with Stenvar with the ability to feel how warm the big Nord’s body was. Feel when the Nord’s hands touched his skin, when he was kissed and held. He wanted to feel, and if his vision, smell and hearing dulled then so be it. He would give up unending life just to live once again.

When his step faltered, Stenvar stopped and waited for him to go on with steadier feet. Stenvar was always there to keep him from slipping within himself, from fleeing and trying to stick to his old ways. Stenvar was there to keep him from forgetting what he wanted rather then what would have fit with his old self. With that big, warm smile and those warm eyes. He was always there.

When they approached Falion himself, the man quirked an eyebrow at Stenvar. He explained that Stenvar was not a thrall, but a dear friend that was there for moral support. And seeing as he was indeed not enthralled, Falion agreed to the ceremony, but mentioned that it first required a filled Black Soul Gem.

He had one that Bruniik had filled for him. A bandit Bosmer male, to help the transition the drunken lout said now whose soul was trapped in a dark gem. He handed it over to the Redguard, who told him of the place to meet at dusk.

Stenvar and he waded through the murky swamps together to reach the circle that Falion talked about. And they waited until dusk rose and the Redguard showed himself.

“Good, you’re here” Falion said.

“Let’s just… get this over with” He said.

“As you desire” Falion snorted, pulling out the Black Gem and placing it in the middle before beckoning him over.

He looked to Stenvar, waiting safely off to the side. His big Nord threw him a comforting smile, to which he took strength and stood in front of the Redguard.

“I call upon the Oblivion realms” Falion said, rising his hands up into the air “The home of those who are not our ancestors. Answer my plea! As in death there is new life, in Oblivion there is beginning for that which has ended. I call forth that power! Accept the soul we offer!”

He was starting to feel weak… tired. And something was tugging on him… or his veins, he was not sure. His vision was blurring and his knees trembled with the effort to hold up even his small weight.

“As the sun ends the night, end the darkness of this soul, return life to the creature you see before you!”

Black light was spilling from the gem at his feet. His mind was breaking apart. His insides felt like they were failing him and everything was spinning-

~*~

When Anton collapsed to the ground, he rushed over and quickly gathered up Anton’s frail body into his arms.

“Do not worry. He was an old, old vampire. Removing the curse has simply exhausted him” The weird priest said as he felt along Anton’s lips for a sign of breath against his fingers.

After a long moment, air rushed out against his thumb and he breathed a sigh of relief. And realizing that he could, he pressed a thumb against Anton’s wrist and waited for a moment. And after a moment… 

…there was weak little thump.

~*~

He carried Anton to the local inn and rented a room. The kind Redguard behind the counter gave him a discount, apologizing for the Orc singing terribly by the fire. He did not care, as it did not bother Anton, and carried the cute little elf to their room and laid him on the bed.

He carefully checked for breathing again, feeling warm breath against his fingers again. And when he checked for a pulse again, he again found that steady little thumping that had to be Anton’s heart getting used to beating again. It grew stronger the longer he listened.

That was not the only thing that changed. He saw real color to Anton’s skin instead of a feverish flush from feeding. Actual color that was around to stay. His skin also grew warmer to the touch, and felt more like skin rather than the strange smoothness that had been Anton’s skin for so long. When he pulled apart Anton’s lips, he saw the fangs pulling back into the gums and slowly but surely dulling to normal blunt points.

He waited and waited and waited for Anton to open his eyes. But after hours it seemed like he never would and he was terrified that the mage had mortally harmed Anton during that ritual. But he felt a need to wait a bit longer before he went and killed himself a mage.

Finally he leaned over Anton’s sleeping form and kept whispering

“Wake up, Anton. Wake up, Anton” Over and over like a prayer in hopes that someone answered it.

When the cute little elf continued to sleep, he pressed a kiss to Anton’s little mouth and stood up. He had a mage to-

Anton’s eyelids flickered, and his mouth twitched. He bent down and feverishly touched Anton’s cheeks.

“Anton? Anton?” He begged.

Anton’s eyelids flickered, and his mouth pulled into a scowl. And after a moment, a groan slipped free from Anton’s puckered lips.

“Anton?”

Those flickering eyelids cracked open, red eyelashes pulling agonizingly slowly off those high cheekbones, and then higher up. Underneath those dark eyelids, was a pair of red pupils swimming in blackness. Not dying embers, not unholy seduction in the form of eyes, just sweet berry red colored eyes swimming in a starless sky. Eyes of the Bosmer. Eyes of his Bosmer.

“Anton?”

That little mouth quirked into a small smile…

And then Anton got bug eyed and jerked away from him, hissing.

“Se-sensitive! Skin, alive! Hurts!” He hissed.

And he could not help but break into relieved laughter, dragging the squirming and loudly protested elf into a hug and burying his face into Anton’s warm shoulder.

~*~

After a few hours, he had managed to push down most of the sensitivity. This helped, because Stenvar got increasingly frisky as the night wore into the morning.

A rough hand toughed his thigh and he shuddered as his skin buzzed. Calloused fingers touching his hands and wrists. Warm lips against his forehead and cheeks and mouth. And when the sensitivity started dying down, he started to feel something… below the belt.

When Stenvar pulled back his head to kiss the base of his throat, something like a little groan came out of his mouth. But breathier and lower. And Stenvar grunted in pleasure from the sound.

And then the big Nord was pushing him down and tugging at his armor.

“Stenvar!” He gasped.

“Sorry, can’t contain myself” Stenvar grinned, licking his lips “But I’ve been wanting this for awhile”

Several buckles and straps were undone before he could get another word out, and then his gauntlets were gone, as well as his belt and the lower half of his armor. The upper portion was yanked away from him in a heartbeat, leaving his flushed skin bare save his breechcloth and his still present boots.

“Stenvar” He groaned strangely.

Rough hands touched his chest, making him jump from sensitivity. They rubbed and rubbed until the sensitivity quelled itself enough that Stenvar could press a kiss against his chest, right over his pounding heart.

Such a strange sensation, excitement. His skin was clammy and hot, his heart pounded against his ribs, and his breathing had quickened. His face felt really hot and his mouth just kept making saliva that he had to keep swallowing to not drown in it. And there was an awful ache in his neither regions.

Stenvar kissed his sweaty skin as he kept using his hands to rub the sensitivity right out of it. He jerked and spasmed until he had been turned into a submissive mess as his mind drowned in foreign sensations. And when the big Nord caught one of his nipples between his lips, he bucked aggressively against the big Nord and let out a rather loud and weird noise.

Was he… moaning? And was that strange sensation… pleasure? Was he really enjoying just being touched by the big Nord? When the Nord tugged with his lips and another embarrassing loud noise came out, he had to agree so. Yes, he was feeling pleasure just from being touched by Stenvar.

Rough hands slipped between his hips and the cloth of his breechcloth and slid it down until it tangled with his boots. And then Stenvar’s hand was on his crotch, touching-

Yelping with sensitivity, he pulled away from Stenvar and shuffled back on the bed away from him, hands protectively shielding himself.

“Sorry, sorry, did I hurt you?” Stenvar asked, hands raised.

“No” He squeaked, blushing at the sound of his own voice.

“…Is your skin still sensitive then?”

“Little bit”

Stenvar scowled and scratched at the side of his head, before sighing and crawling forward to kiss him softly and sweetly. When he pulled back, the big Nord was smiling a little bit.

“I guess I have to wait a bit longer. I don’t mind though, I’ve already waited a bit, I guess I can wait some more”

No… he supposed that he had waited too long for it as well. He was alive and he wanted to be greedy in living for the first time in what had to be centuries. He wanted to feel pleasure, he wanted to feel his body humming and singing in delight. He wanted to feel alive.

He crawled forward and kissed the big Nord again, urging his hands to his body again. Those rough hands gently swept over his chest, and then over his back, whisking away the last bits of sensitivity.

They just needed to be… careful. They needed to take it slowly, get him used to sensations again. It would take time, it would take patience. But he was sure that both of them were willing. He was eager for the big Nord to help him rediscover his body, find the places that once could feel, feel again.

He kicked off his boots and breechcloth before squirming into the big Nord’s lap. Their erections brushed each other and he let out an embarrassing noise as a jolt ran up and down his spine. He felt… pressure, building in his pelvis. He had a feeling that he was close to releasing. Far too soon, it felt like, but his body was far too sensitive for him to have any resistance. And the last time he had sex was… hundreds of years ago.

The big Nord groped his arse, rubbing along the flesh. He shuddered deeply, and then yelped when those fingers moved around to the front of his pelvis and rubbed along the line of his hips. Stenvar rubbed there, grinning against his mouth, until he was mewling and shuddering, the pressure only getting harder and harder to contain.

“St-stenvar… sto-stop… I’m gonna” He managed.

Suddenly those hands stopped, and then one of Stenvar’s big hands wrapped around his erection and gave it a short jerk. And his toes curled as a sudden wave of pleasure hit him and left him moaning loudly, something coming out of him.

He shook as a different kind of sensitivity rolled over his skin, making him shudder as Stenvar held up his fingers and the white liquid on them.

“That was easy” Stenvar chuckled.

“Ass” He shuddered.

The big Nord brought his fingers up to his mouth only for his hand to stop him.

“You don’t want to try that, you don’t know how long that has been in there”

“Gross” Stenvar laughed before reaching out for a rag to clean his hand with.

The mess cleaned up, the big Nord wrapped his arms around him and brought him closer, kissing him again, deeply.

He wondered what to do about the state that Stenvar was in, when that damned hand wrapped around him again. Another squeak tumbled out of his mouth, but before it could be followed by angry words, Stenvar stroked him again and a shudder ripped through his body.

He could not find it in him to fight it, feeling the pressure return with just a few strokes of that calloused hand. And when that big bastard stopped stroking him, he was erect again.

“Noticed something” Stenvar grinned, hands groping along his arse as he panted and held onto the big Nord “You’ve got piercings down there…”

“Shuudd-up” He mewled out as his sensitive spots were toyed with.

“What? Just saying their kinda naughty” Stenvar chuckled.

His next retort died on his tongue when Stenvar suddenly pulled him away. His shot the Nord a confused look, before he was spun around and suddenly bent over. And then he was mad. If Stenvar thought that he could just push into him and have his way then he was-!

His cheeks were pried apart and suddenly a tongue was licking him there. And his rage melted into pleasure as the untouched ring was assaulted with such a strange sensation. And with Stenvar messaging his hips, and the pressure inside of him, he felt himself go lax into a loose pile of limbs.

Biting the bed sheets, his body jolted and shook as Stenvar licked him there again and again. That broad tongue slicked him with warm spit and made his body shudder with pleasure. Stenvar was moaning and groaning into his skin, hands groping along his hips lovingly.

After a few more broad licks, he felt a broad and calloused finger prod his arse. He bit down harder, but forced his lower body to relax and let that finger rub against his ring and then push against it. He prodded harder and hard until finally that broad fingertip pushed inside of him.

It felt odd, and… strange… weird. He had no other way to describe it. It was completely foreign to him, and he bit hard enough to rip the bed sheets and thought his teeth would crack from the pressure of biting down. And then Stenvar licked around the ring and some of the odd feeling disappeared.

Noting his discomfort, Stenvar used his other hand to reach underneath him and give his erection a few strokes. The feeling shook free and he felt that weird pressure in his pelvis again, just trying to focus on keeping his body relaxed while Stenvar gently worked that single finger inside of him. The big Nord had to use a generous amount of spit to make it work, but eventually the single digit slid in and out with ease.

The sensation was not… bad. But he rather disliked the feeling of spit being the lubricant. And after a few desprete grunts and his nails into Stenvar’s closest leg, the big Nord paused in his attentions.

“Anton?”

“Bag… jar…” He managed.

Stenvar pulled himself free and his body flopped on the bed, shuddering as his over sensitized nerves tried to keep up. But he heard Stenvar’s moving about and finally heard the telltale sound of the jar being found.

“Is this Dwarven Oil?”

“Partly… it’s been cured” He muttered into the sheets.

“…I see”

“W-wait… let me do it”

“..Oh?”

He got up and turned around, face going red as he took the jar from Stenvar and unscrewed it.

“Your fingers are… big” He muttered, dipping some of his slender fingers. It felt slippery and warm for some reason and tried not to blush as he thought of what it would feel like inside of him.

“Hmm”

Face having gone completely dark, he moved around until the big Nord had a good view of what he was doing before pressing a single finger against himself. His much more slender finger, not nearly as calloused as Stenvar’s finger, easily slid inside and did not feel nearly as weird as before. With a shudder, he started sliding the finger in and out of himself.

With a low chuckle Stenvar leaned forward and started assaulting his skin with his mouth. The stubble on the damned man’s face tickled his skin as the man’s warm lips and tongue strove to drive him insane. He could barely breathe as he fought to concentrate on opening himself up.

Stray teeth found his nipple and sucked and tugged on the peak of skin and he gasped and bucked against the man’s mouth. His breathing was loud and excited again, breaking in another moan as the tickle of the man’s stubble ran across and then another nipple was tormented. He found the right state of mind to slip in another oil slick finger into himself.

“Ssssteeeenn” He mewled.

Stenvar dipped down, kissing along his stomach and then finding the sensitive lines of his hips. His hips were shaking with need. The fingers slipping in and out of him were feeling nice, especially when he pressed against a spot inside of him that had his entire body shuddering.

And then the big Nord moved downward and suddenly-

The next sound to come out of him was exceptionally animalistic as Stenvar swallowed him whole and swallowed around him. If he kept doing that… he was going too…

He felt one of Stenvar’s fingers push in besides him and press around a bit, further opening him up. The slight pain was enough to get him to focus on not spending himself for another few moments. Just another few moments…

Stenvar pulled his finger out and pulled his mouth off his erection before sitting up. It looked like the big Nord was done waiting. He pulled his still slick fingers out of himself and leaned back as he watched Stenvar slick himself up and then lean over him.

“Ready?” Stenvar panted.

“Yeah”

Stenvar lifted his hips up, wrapping his legs around the big Nord’s waist, before nudging his hips forward. He felt the head of the big Nord’s thick erection brush against him and he wrapped his arms around Stenvar’s neck and held on tight. A big hand rubbed his back before rocking his hips again and he felt a firmer nudge from the warm flesh wanting inside of him.

Stenvar’s hands grabbed his waist and lifted him up until the big Nord was seated on the bed and he was being held over the big Nord’s erection. His thighs shook as he was dropped down gently. He felt another nudge before he was lifted up, and then he was dropped down again and this time he felt the head slightly breech him.

With a harsh gasp, his teeth found Stenvar’s shoulder. And with something between his teeth, Stenvar grabbed a hold of him and pushed inside of him. At first his body resisted, but then Stenvar’s superior strength won out and the head popped inside of him. His teeth sank in deep enough to leave bruised and red bite marks as Stenvar pushed further and further inside of him.

A rough hand reached between their bodies and found his softening erection. Stenvar roughly rubbed it, distracting him as he continued to push forward until it was impossible and then pulling out. And gods… the pulling out felt amazing. Or perhaps it was because he was getting stroked? It did not matter before Stenvar was pushing in again, getting a bit further, and then pulling out again.

And then a rhythm was started. Pushing in and then pulling out, pushing in and then pulling out. Pushing in and then taking his sweet time pulling out. The entire time Stenvar was stroking him and his teeth were biting down deeper and deeper into Stenvar’s shoulder as the pressure in his pelvis was getting worse and worse.

He was going to… he was going to… His teeth broke through the skin and he tasted blood on his tongue. 

He expected things to go a lot differently. He expected to be disgusted by the taste of blood on his tongue, or Stenvar to be pained by suddenly being bitten so hard.

But he felt Stenvar shudder violently against him, letting out a throat groan. And the taste that hit his tongue… while it was not really as drug like to him as it was before he remembered the drug like effects so keenly. The taste of something hot, thick and enriching on his tongue, the rush of warmth and life and warmth inside of him, the feeling of Stenvar’s body clenching up in pleasure.

Stenvar was rubbing his more and more and thrusting desperately inside of his body as he lapped at the wound in a haze and sucked the leaking blood up. Stenvar grunted like an animal above him, thrusting wildly into his relaxed body and stroking him faster.

The big Nord was gasping out his name, desperate, like he had the key to the big Nord’s release. And he kept licking and sucking on the wound while Stenvar was pounding into him and stroking him off.

“Anton” Stenvar grunted out.

The pressure snapped inside of him and he mewled out another release as Stenvar spent himself as well. He felt even more heat and wetness inside of him and moaned out his own release as he writhed in the man’s arms. Shuddering until they both collapsed in the bed in a tangled mess of limbs, trying to catch their breath.

After a hazed moment of enjoying nothing but pleasure, he jolted and looked at the deep bite mark he left in Stenvar’s shoulder. It was bruised and dark and a small trickle of blood dripping from where he just deeply dug into the tough flesh. 

“Ah… sorry” He said.

“No problem… didn’t hurt”

“…Stenvar?”

“Yes, love?”

“…Are you a masochist?”

“As far as I know, no”

“…Right. Anyway, come on, let’s get cleaned up”

“I don’t know about you, but I could use a snooze”

“After we’re not covered in semen, blood and sweat” He sighed, swatting the side of the big Nord’s head before landing a smooch on his nose.

~*~

“So, I see you are now among us living, Anton?”

“Yes, I suppose I am” He smiled at the drunken mage.

He had returned to the Companions after being cursed. His living skin stung from sensitivity still, but he just reveled in the sense.

“Then let me welcome you first. Welcome back to us, Anton. Don’t fuck it up this time!”

He allowed it, though he still smacked the drunken ass for the comment. And with a grin, he pulled out the letter from his bag and handed it over.

“When you’re done being an ass, you’re invited”

“Then I’ll never get to come to your marriage ceremony!” Bruniik laughed.

And he laughed too.

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a side note, Maker and the Nine bless the soul(s) that leaked the romance stuff. I am for going to romance the Bull now~


End file.
